The Good Soul
by ScarlettFitch
Summary: Achilles/Patroclus. When Patroclus, the clumsy son of a disappointed father, is exiled to Phthia for fostering, he feels totally justified in his dislike for the king's son. After all, who could possibly tolerate someone so arrogant, so narcissistic, and so wholly and completely everything that he wants to be? Rated M for later chapters. ILIAD based.
1. Patroclus

**I've had the need to write an Achilles x Patroclus fanfiction for sometime now, whether as a means to get back into writing after a very long hiatus or simply to satisfy my own indulgences I don't really know. Either way, this is the first proper piece I've written for about a year so I hope it meets any standards and that you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it.**

**Please note: this story is based on the ILIAD rather than on the movie but no one reads anything over there and I'm very selfish. A few details: Patroclus and Achilles are round about the same age and if they are cousins (haven't decided yet) they are very loosely related. This is set prior to the Trojan war when Patroclus is first exiled to Phthia; hopefully it will evolve into a kind of philosophical exploration of their relationship with some cutesy teenage angst thrown in there too for the benefit of us fangirls (embrace it, it's a way of life.)**

**Also it's ok to laugh, I wrote this mainly for the poops and giggles.**

~one~

Today was a day of celebration. Wine was poured not from clay but from silver, a heifer had been stalked, speared and roasted and the palace was heavy with the smell of dripping fat, incense, purple and stinging burned in their candle holders and someone had sketched a phallus onto Patroclus' best tunic.

It was difficult, he decided, unless you looked at it from a certain angle, to tell exactly what it was. It had been done very crudely with a stick of kohl and the hand was shaky, as if belonging to a child. But despite this it had remained resistant to all his attempts to wash it or brush it off and he supposed that whoever had done it had gone over it in wax or oil, resulting in a hard, translucent sheen that served both as a protector and an emphasiser. _But still,_ he told himself, _it is difficult to tell what it is. It is barely possible, unless you look at it from a certain angle._

In a desperate gesture of reassurance he laid it out on the mattress and surveyed it, arms folded. He tilted his head. He looked at it from a certain angle. _Shit._

This, he realised with a pang of regret, was exactly the reason his mother had told him to pack a spare. She had foreseen this, in her uncanny, all-knowing, motherly way. It was evident in the way she kissed him goodbye, the way her eyes shone sad and accepting as clear as if she had said "My poor boy, my poor, poor son. They will tear him to pieces. They will make him meat for their dogs." He supposed he should have wondered when she hugged him so tight he felt his ribs wince and the imploring look she'd sent in his father's direction. And when she'd burst into tears he supposed he should have done more than pat her awkwardly on the back and assure her that despite what his father said he had never once considered himself a "sitting target," although this was partly due to the fact that running had been second nature to him since the invention of the sling shot.

He crossed over to the heavy wooden chest and rummaged through his belongings, sending tunic after tunic flying for the mattress; _Too little…too much…too Thracian, too embroidered...too bloody orange…_and he wondered, perhaps if his this had been intentional, if Menoetius had purposefully neglected to waste fine things on the son who had brought him nothing but shame since day one. The thought was an unwelcome one and Patroclus dismissed it quickly as his fists curled around something of fine, woven material. With considerable relief he yanked the tunic over his head and turned to look in the mirror.

A pale, skinny young man looked back at him, big dark eyes set into a nervous thin face that was all apprehension and insecurity, the kind of face, Patroclus noted grimly, that his father would have described as "punchable." He held his arms awkwardly by his sides as if he didn't know quite what to do with them, self-consciously aware of the pinched, gangling look of someone who had grown a lot in a short space of time. The tunic hung off his frame like something dead, and he saw, with an increasing sense of despair, that it was purple.

Purple was rich and deep and looked like the touch of velvet. Purple was a gesture of wealth, status and high society. Purple was reserved especially for kings; kings, heroes and their sons.

Purple was _so_ not his colour.

Instead of showing him off as regal and impressive the tunic only made him look insipid and washed-out by comparison, highlighting the dark circles from lack of sleep round his eyes and the sharp angles of his chin and jaw. It hung just above his knees, revealing the scabs and scruff of childhood and shamefully skinny legs, like the bones of a sacrificial offering and his arms stuck out at the sides as if they were trying to escape. He supposed his mother had packed it in the hope that he would wear it with pride, that it would give him confidence and standing among the other boys. Instead he just felt faintly sick.

But it was the next best thing he had, the only thing worthy of a king's reception. So with a sigh he turned away from the mirror and, casting a mournful look at the abandoned tunic, left the room.

As his feet made slap-slapping sounds against the grey tile he knew that if he was going to be honest with himself, he really wasn't that surprised. He'd noticed the other boys sizing him up as soon as he'd walked in; caught every suppressed smirk, discreet nudge and whispered taunt as he took his place in the long line of royal castoffs, the blood beating against his ears as he tried valiantly to blot out the hushed hum of _"murderer" _from behind him and within. If he had been bigger, more imposing, they'd have stayed out of his way; maybe even looked at him with a little admiration. But looking like he did and being, generally, a pretty nice person he had only let down their expectations and thus served as another massive disappointment.

He entered the hall cautiously, taking care not to look at anyone directly. Of course they looked up when he walked in, grinning vulgarly to each other and making crude gestures; he felt his cheeks warm but said nothing and took his place quietly in the line.

The boy in front of him, Deiomachus, turned to give him the once-over. "You're wearing purple."

"Well noticed," said Patroclus, craning his neck to see what was happening at the front.

"I thought you were wearing the other one? The green?"

"Yeah well, so did I," he replied through gritted teeth.

Deiomachus frowned. "So what happened?"

"Erm," he bit his lip. "Well…don't say anything, no big deal, what's a joke between friends…but someone drew something kind of…phallic…on the back."

"By kind of phallic you mean…?"

"Well, um, a phallus, actually."

It was with great restrain that Deiomachus held back a hoot of wild laughter, possibly stifled by the arrival of the King and his two armed guards. "Someone drew a dick on your shirt?"

"Hey keep it down alright? I'm sure they didn't mean any harm-"

"-Right," the boy smirked. "Sure. You know you can report this?"

"And let my new father know I've been targeted for abuse on my first day, no thank you," Patroclus muttered. "Gods, what's taking them so long?"

King Peleus, it appeared was no longer quite the man he had been thirty years ago. He was lowered rather than sat into his chair and his knees gave a loud click that echoed across the hall. It was hard to imagine, thought Patroclus, that this man had sailed with Jason, shaken hands with Hercules and been given a goddess for a wife.

Once seated he folded his hands in his lap and surveyed the boys with polite curiosity, rheumy but bright eyes tracing each face one by one. As they fell on him Patroclus attempted to stand a little straighter but they passed him quickly, indifferent to the entirely unremarkable. He felt his shoulders sag.

"Welcome," he greeted in a voice that was surprisingly carrying, not at all like the expected rasp of an old man. "Long has it been since such promising young men as yourselves have stood in my halls, a credit each of you to the fathers that brought you here. I trust that you will all do your very best to uphold the name of your house and abide by our customs, for remember that this is now your country and I am now your king. Shame and disgrace are foreign words to our tongue and I look forward to the day when it can be said that you have repaid my generosity with honour and duty."

He paused to bless them with a friendly, fatherly smile and the boys understood that he was waiting for an expression of gratitude. A murmur of thanks rippled across the hall until, satisfied, Peleus quietened them with a slight raise of his withered hand. "Phthia rejoices the receiving of its new sons," he declared warmly. "May you give her just cause."

He leant back as if exhausted by the speech and gestured for a man to his right who held a piece of linen in his hands. Immediately he cleared his throat and began to read off names. _"Eukleides."_

A tall boy with a lolloping gait strode up to where the king sat and knelt. There was an exchange of words, too far away for Patroclus to hear, then Peleus touched the boy's forehead lightly and he re-joined the group.

_Kleonides._

_Leonides._

_Iasonides._

One by one another followed suit until the number of the unblessed dwindled, leaving Patroclus one of the last waiting anxiously. Some of the names he recognised and knew that these were the sons of kings and famous men. _So what? _he thought angrily. _I too am a prince. I have as much of a right to be here as anyone._

_And more than most, _said a nasty little voice at the back of his head. He ignored it and tried to focus on what was going on but the gloom of the hall was bringing back unwanted memories; snatches of high ceilings and arched doorways, wooden benches scraping the stone floor as they were arranged for a trial, the look on his father's face as he knelt in supplication, his mother crying softly into her shawl, the dead boy's parents screaming profanity after profanity until the sudden slam of a door yanked him out of his reverie and he spun round to glimpse the source of the disruption.

A boy stood in the doorway.

He was lean and slim as one of the young trees that grew wild on the beaches of Patroclus' home country, of average height but somehow he seemed taller. His limbs were a light brown from the sun, like polished sandalwood and the strength in them was obvious yet without the crude bulk of a brute. Instead he was delicately muscled, slender yet wiry with a face as fine featured as a girl's and framed by a dazzling shock of golden hair.

He strode through the hall, casual as a gust of wind and knelt at the king's feet without sparing a look behind him. As he passed Patroclus thought he caught the dry salt smell of the sea. "Apologies for my lateness, Father," he said. "I lost track of the time."

"Rise, my son," said Peleus with a smile. "And take your place beside me." He patted the seat next to his own and the boy sat, one foot dangling over the edge with a sort of casual elegance. "Here I present my son," spoke Peleus to the group, voice filled with a pride Patroclus hadn't even thought possible. "The prince: Achilles."

"Hail, Achilles," chorused the boys dutifully. The prince didn't even bother acknowledge them, only inclined his chin slightly to show that he had heard and instead focused his energy on flicking the dirt from beneath his nails. Inexplicably, Patroclus felt a surge of instant dislike and was still glowering at him when the scribe called out _Menoitides._

"Menoitides?" he called again. "Is the son of Menoeitus present?" and Patroclus realised with an unpleasant shock that he had been so busy disliking Achilles that he had missed his name. "Here my lord," he managed to stutter and hurried forward to the patch of stone floor where the others had knelt. But in his rush he stumbled and with a cry was sent sprawling to the ground with an ungainly thud.

Achilles was the first to laugh. His mouth opened pink and wide as a cat's and his head fell back against his chair as he began to shake uncontrollably. His reaction was quickly copied by the boys behind him and soon the whole hall was filled with the sound of wild laughter, even the guards clutched their ribs and wiped tears from their eyes as Patroclus stood, cheeks burning, and turned his face towards the heavens.

_Dear Zeus, _he prayed, trying desperately to look anywhere but in front if him, _if you have _ever _loved me, even in that sick and twisted way of yours, do me a favour. Kill me now, and make it quick._

He had no such luck. After what felt like an age Peleus raised his hand again, his leathery old features twisted with repressed amusement, and beckoned him closer. Patroclus shuffled forward a few steps, keeping his eyes fixed on the old king rather than straying to his right.

"You are Patroclus, son of Menoeitus?"

"I am, my lord," Patroclus replied with as much dignity as it was possible to muster under the circumstances.

Peleus nodded, suddenly serious. "I have heard your story, young man," he said with a frown. "You are here today because, as your father tells me, you have been exiled from your home. This is so?"

"Yes my lord."

"And that you killed a boy, no older than yourself."

"Yes my lord."

"Over a game of _dice, _no less."

"Yes my lord."

Peleus raised a thinning eyebrow. "And you are aware of your sin?"

_For Gods' sake. Yes, I killed a kid, yes I know I've earned myself a one way ticket to Tartarus, yes I'm pretty bloody upset about it._ He struggled to regain composure over his face as he replied "Yes my lord. Very aware."

"I should think so. Gambling is a very serious crime and I will not tolerate it as long as you are under my roof. Is that clear?"

Patroclus stared in disbelief, searching the old king's face for signs of jest. There were none. So he cleared his throat and replied automatically "Yes my lord. Very clear."

"Good," said the king approvingly, reaching to touch Patroclus' brow in blessing. "Rise, Patroclus, and be welcome. You may still yet make a good man."

He supposed he's meant it as a reassurance but as he got to his feet and concealed himself at the very back of the line Patroclus had the unsettling feeling that he had been cursed rather than blessed. Certainly that was the impression he got upon catching sight of Achilles' still smirking face and the snickering green eyes that had never left him. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks and he stared fixedly at the floor in an attempt to block out the scornful mutterings of the other boys, anger and shame bubbling acidly in his stomach. _Please Lord Zeus, _he found himself begging, _please let it be over soon._

Finally _Androclides_ re-joined the assembly and the scribe folded the linen back into his tunic. With a wave of Peleus' wrist the boys dispersed and were seated at long oaken tables laden with meat, fish, bread, fruit and wine; watered almost to impotency and sharp tasting to Patroclus who was used to the sun-sweet grapes of the south. He sat at the end, far away from the others who had scurried to avoid him like a bad omen, and stared down at his plate for some sign of deliverance, for an indication that some God up there had not yet forsaken him. None came and the bread stuck in his throat when he swallowed.

A movement from the top of the dais made him look up and he noticed Achilles slipping from his seat to join the boys at the far end. Patroclus was surprised, he had assumed that the boy prince had his own private quarters and would be reluctant to mix with the cast-offs and strays of less important families. The others, it seemed, had made the same assumption for they leapt up at once, tripping over each other to make room and pulling their plates round so that the prince had all the space he needed to spread his stately bread with stately honey and flick his noble princely hair out of his noble princely eyes. Patroclus watched him, distaste increasing with every chew, bite and swallow.

"Hey. Menoitides."

"Huh?" he swivelled round to meet the grinning face of Leonides, gesturing towards his lap.

"You saving that for later?" he asked.

Patroclus glanced down and felt a sinking feeling in his gut. Somebody it appeared had upturned a wine bowl and its contents was dribbling steadily onto Pactroclus' tunic, staining the rich wool inky dark. The upper end of the table guffawed and Achilles' perfect features twisted into a leerish grin until Patroclus' face burned hot and red as a burning spit.

Purple, he concluded, staring down at his dampened lap, was really not his colour.


	2. Ampelius

**Thanks so much to those who reviewed my last chapter, it gives me such a pretty feeling. Feel free to boost my self-esteem or just to tell me what you thought...any comments at all are loved like I love oxygen.**

** soso22 - It takes a really good one to stop me from puking, hopefully you can classify this in that category! Thank you!**

** Sarah - Yes you WILL, even if I have to continually send you links. Thanks :D**

~two~

He was woken the next morning by a splitting headache and a smack of yellow light. It came into his room in floods, yanking him into consciousness like a slap in the face. Patroclus groaned, squeezing his eyes shut tight as gates against an invasion and tried to will his mind back to sleep but to no avail; the morning was persistent as a breeze slipped through the open window and under the thin covers, ruffling his hair and prickling his skin like gooseflesh.

He shivered and wrapped the linen sheets tightly around his body, trying to recall snatches of his dream. He was back at home in his father's palace where the walls were comforting and the faces familiar if not always kind. He was skipping stones across the sea surface, grinning as each one was swallowed by the waves. His mother sat beside him, her face turned into the sun, hands folded in her lap. A picture of perfect serenity. He tried to keep this last one fixed in his mind but it was like cupping water in his hands. The harder he tried to hold on the more it began to slip away until he was left alone in his cold, shadowy room; hating the morning and the promise of the day it brought.

Eventually, when he had run out of excuses for remaining immobile he slid from the mattress, dressed quickly and washed his face. The shameful tunic still lay rumpled and disgraced in the corner. Patroclus' pride forbade giving it to the slaves for washing when just the look on their faces upon his return from last night's feast had been enough to send him running for his room. The king's sympathy he could bare. Servants' pity was another matter entirely. After deeming himself presentable he headed downstairs to the main hall where most of the other boys were already helping themselves to breakfast. Trying hard to ignore their barely suppressed sniggers he took his place next to Deiomachus who smiled wryly at him.

"Made quite an impression last night, didn't you?" he greeted. Patroclus couldn't tell if his tone was pitying or sarcastic.

"I'd rather not talk about it actually," said Patroclus. "Pass me a bowl."

"Oh yeah," said Deiomachus. "You might not want to use that."

"Why not?"

"I think someone pissed in it."

Patroclus stared in disgust. "Are you serious?"

Deiomachus shrugged. "They knew you'd be the last one down."

Patroclus looked round the room to meet a hundred grinning, eager faces. He sighed, ignored the wooden bowls and platters offered him and grabbed an apple. Fruit, at least, could be trusted.

"What's happening today then?" he asked, taking a cautious bite.

"Drills," came the reply. "Drills and training. We're supposed to be on the field in an hour."

Patroclus felt his heart slide a little further down the walls of his chest. He had never been a natural athlete, much to Menoetius' shame and would often content himself with watching the other boys as they raced, leaped and battled across the fields, their feet rising little golden clouds in the dirt as sweat slipped from tensed limbs to the grey earth. He remembered countless occasions where he would attempt to throw a shotput or launch a javelin only to suffer the humiliation of having it land barely a foot before him, or enter a swimming contest only to come back up, spluttering. Personally, he blamed the Gods. It was they who had seen fit to gift him with such weak arms and thin shoulders, they who had bestowed upon him the esteemed title of Perfectly Average…at everything.

"Who will be taking us?" he asked warily.

Deiomachus glanced around the hall and pointed to the high table where the noble lords of Peleus' house sat munching on bread and honey. "There. Ampelius. I hear he has rather high standards."

Patroclus followed his line of vision and settled on a sturdy, thickset man with a voice like a battering ram and rather unruly facial hair. His heart sank a little deeper._ Still, _he thought, thinking of the coldly beautiful boy who had swept into dinner the previous night, _it could be worse. _

He finished his breakfast quickly and tried to ignore the mounting sense of dread as he followed the others outside and onto the practice fields. Overhead the sky was a brilliant, cloud-less blue and the grass was damp underfoot, still clinging with the residues of the previous night's rain, the earth itself cool and springy. Patroclus tilted his neck in the direction of the sun as they lined up wordlessly, poised and eager for instruction before Ampelius who stood like an overgrown thorn bush, his ham-like hands clasped behind his back in typical soldier stance.

He needn't have worried. Despite his wild appearance Ampelius showed himself to be pretty reasonable and beamed at the boys with hearty, almost childlike enthusiasm. Inside every boy, he told them in his ground-shaking boom of a voice, there is a man and inside every man there is a warrior. His job was to bring the warrior out of each of them; to chisel away the soft exterior of childhood to reveal a hard and polished core of rock and iron until they could stand and call themselves the Sons of their Fathers. "Think of me as a carpenter," he said. "And these," he raised his giant's hands "Are my tools. With them I shall make fine chairs out of all of you, firm enough for even the most bounteous of backsides."

He threw back his great, shaggy head and laughed, causing little stones to jump up into the air and cartwheel into each other. Patroclus thought he felt the ground beneath his feet vibrate.

They were given practice spears of roughly hewn wood and watched nervously as Ampelius showed them how best to hold and thrust, correcting any untidy technique with a hearty roar of "Not quite lad, not quite." Patroclus held his weapon awkwardly and was silent when his grip was corrected and corrected again. It felt strange, as if it did not rightly belong there and he experienced a momentary settling of relief when it was released from his palms and skimmed the side of the oak tree target with a feeble bump. The boys behind him tittered and Ampelius blew out a slow breath. "And again, son. Only this time try and keep your eyes open."

And so it went for rest of the morning.

It became quickly apparent to everyone, including Ampelius, that this was not a specimen built for the spear. A hundred times Patroclus threw, renewing a desperate hope in his chest as the metal point pierced the sky only to have those hopes come to a crashing thud at his feet, a few centimetres behind the shaft. Beside him Leonides and Deiomachus were hurling their weapons with Olympic accuracy, grinning each time the silver heads shredded the targets and left behind a trail of little wooden splinters while his own fell short, aimed too high or missed the thing completely. Ampelius accepted every dropped weapon and missed target with almost maternal patience but after the first few dozen failed throws Patroclus could sense annoyance.

"Come on now lad," he bellowed, his great hairy eyebrows meeting in a perplexed frown. "Get your body weight behind it. We Achaeans are blessed with the strong backs of a bull's and the thighs of its plough. Show some of your parent's good breeding!"

With that he took the spear from his hands and launched it at the oak tree, back and shoulder muscles rippling like a turning tide. It cut through the air with a faint whistle and struck the bark dead centre. A trickle of sap squeezed its way through the cracks as Ampelius turned to Patroclus and handed him another. Patroclus squinted at the target. He threw. He missed.

At midday the sun burned huge, white and furious. Sweating and covered from head to foot in dust the boys trudged wearily from the field over to where servants waited obediently with bread and water. They collapsed into the shade and began to chatter loudly and boastfully about the day's exercise while Patroclus inched away until he was sat by himself to sip cool water and listen to the crickets chirruping through the grass. His ears burned scarlet with humiliation and he avoided Ampelius' eye for fear that he might again see that ever-familiar shadow of disappointment flicker and settle there.

He raised the water skin to his lips and looked around him with polite curiosity, confused over the sudden quietness. The boorish conversation that had up till now been ringing like clashing swords had come to a stop. All eyes were fixed on something on the other side of the field. Perplexed, Patroclus followed their gaze. He stopped. He saw.

For a moment, he wondered what he was watching. Then, he realised. It was him. The prince. Achilles. The sun had settled on his hair and face so that he seemed to be made entirely of gold and in one hand he held a spear, not one of the practice play things of the past hour but something real and lethal. He thrust and it seemed to Patroclus that the weapon was merely an extension of his arm, as much a part of him as flesh and sinew for he held it so naturally and his movements were all freedom and grace like those of a cat's.

In a haze of dusty light Achilles' feet licked the ground like pink tongues, his body a beam of perfect energy as he struck _one and two and three and – _

Pause. Aim. Throw.

Like lightening splits the surface of a roaring sea the spear shone ablaze. It struck, with perfect form and accuracy and the target shuddered and collapsed. An impossible throw.

He straightened. Turned. And with the foster sons of Phthia staring the wide-eyed, open-mouthed stares of men who have just witnessed the divine the boy-prince smiled.

Patroclus' breath lodged in his throat.

"LOOK AWAY!" Ampelius' roar tore through the confounded silence like a charging bull at a fair. "LOOK AWAY! NO ONE SEES THE PRINCE FIGHT! TURN AROUND! LOOK AWAY!"

Setting himself between Achilles and the bewildered onlookers Ampelius ushered the boys away, casting an anxious look over his shoulder. Patroclus just caught a glimpse of the boy slip out of sight, taking his spear and splintered target with him. When Ampelius had moved out the way it was as if nothing had ever been there.

"They say his mother is a goddess," came a sudden whisper behind him. He whirled round. Everyone's face bore the same mystified, awe-struck expression as he knew he did.

"Hera herself as I heard it," said another.

"No," Androclides shook his head. "A wood nymph. From Pelion."

"Don't be ridiculous Thales," another scoffed. "How could a wood nymph give birth to a fighter like that? No, he's one of Ares'…or Athena's at the very least."

"Athena's a virgin, genius. Care explaining how a virgin gives birth _at all?"_

"Well I don't bloody know, she's a goddess, maybe they lay eggs or something…"

Patroclus listened to the excited supposes and presumptions of his peers with only half an ear. He felt hazy, as he often did after too much wine at dinner and was filled with the sudden urge to sit down and make sense of things. He felt addled and confused and suddenly, inexplicably angry although at what he wasn't quite sure. All he knew was that what he had just seen, what he had…witnessed…should not have been possible. No one should have been able to move like that. It wasn't right.

It wasn't fair.

He thought of his own clumsy steps onto the dais, of grazes and scars from tripping over his own feet and landing in an ungainly mess at the king's feet. He thought of the spear in his hands, how uncomfortable he'd felt holding it and of Ampelius' unhappy frown as it landed. Here he was, flailing like a drowning man at the most basic of tasks as he, Achilles, made it look so easy.

Made it look beautiful.

He became aware, after a while, that somebody was watching him. He looked up. It was one of the slaves, observing him sympathetically, a tiny, hateful smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Irritation sparked once again in Patroclus' chest. "What?" he snapped.

The slave shuffled his feet in embarrassment. "Nothing, young master."

"Don't give me that," said Patroclus. "Come on, out with it."

He waited expectantly, frustration mounting steadily until finally the slave spoke again, "There is no point in envying him," he said. "For he is matchless in skill and speed. The God's have yet to make a more perfect fighter, nor have they ever made one before. He will be the best warrior of his generation."

Patroclus stared. The slave's face was unreadable. "How could you know this?" he finally managed to mutter. "How could you possibly know this?"

The young man shrugged. "It is written."

A boy's name was called, the slave made his excuses and walked away, leaving Patroclus to stare stupidly at the space where Achilles had been. If it had seemed empty before it was nothing but a void now, a vast expanse of where once a demi-god had stood and where now there was nothing.


	3. Achilles

**Thanks again to my reviewers, especially to soso22. This chapter we get a little bit more of Achilles...and his...um...character.**

**Be warned: this is my own interpretation of the pre-Iliad story and it is set during Achilles' younger years, before his ego gets a chance to cool down a bit. I write him as a dick because there is quite a lot of evidence that he was rather and as this has no effect on my love for him I hope you can bear it too. Of course that might just be because I'm a masochist.**

**soso22 - Good, it means I'm doing well :D as for Achilles/Pat moments you'll have to be patient I'm afraid.**

**Sarah - Really? What was you first clue? You should, he strongly reminds me of you.**

**Guest - Fangasming is a way of life. Embrace it. Thank you :)**

~three~

Life in Phthia began to pass in a haze of monotonous routine. Every morning Patroclus would wake up and drag himself out of bed with considerable reluctance, dress in a simple starched tunic and eat breakfast (alone). The next few hours were then spent wincing at Ampelius' bellowed orders as he tried not to make a fool of himself whether with spear, sword or javelin. When finally they grew too weary to raise their weapons and the sun shone hottest in the sky they were dismissed to pursue their own activities which usually involved running up and down the beach, pelting each other with unripe figs, visiting the girls of neighbouring villages or venturing into the great, vast expanse of sea that both beckoned to and mocked Patroclus, as if it knew him. He never joined the other boys and they never asked him to. Instead he sat, under a tree or on the beach, quite intent to ignore and with being ignored.

Some days it was as if he had never left home.

There was the one major difference though, and his greatest source of discomfort about his new life in Peleus' house. It was that of his host. He did not see Achilles often, mostly at meal times and the occasional glimpse on the training fields when Ampelius' massive girth was not hiding him from view. But when he did he let him know it. When he walked into a room the servant girls would drop whatever they were holding and become quite out of sorts. Ordinary, rational people would become quite ridiculous and fall over themselves to serve him, to please him. Even grown men, hardened from war and rough living would crack slow smiles at his effortless wit and charm. Peleus' foster sons became rivals for his notice, competing over who got the loudest laugh or widest grin and he ruled them without even knowing he was doing so. He was the natural leader of the pack, the golden boy and everybody loved him. Everybody except Patroclus.

Here, thought Patroclus, was a pampered pretty boy; all easy grins and adult charm with not an inkling of sense in his perfect, everything-blond head. He could not understand for the life of him why only he seemed to notice his arrogance, his tremendous conceit and his disdain for anyone who did not go by the name of Achilles. Whereas the other boys competed endlessly for his approval and affection it seemed blatantly obvious to him that the prince laughed loudest at his own jokes, smiled widest at his own reflection and was pleased best by the failures of others. Such a boy, Patroclus mused glumly, would be the favourite of Gods and women. He, Patroclus, found him insufferable.

He was aware that some might have named his dislike uncalled for, especially as Achilles had never spoken to him but for once at dinner when he had asked for the salt. Patroclus had been so shocked that he'd knocked over the bowl in his hurry, prompting raucous laughter and mock applause. But for then Patroclus had contented himself with hating Achilles from a distance, shooting daggers when his back was turned and scowling into his food whenever his laugh rang across Peleus' hall.

Until one day, after arms practice when Ampelius had scattered the boys across the bay. Patroclus was sat in his habitual spot under a tree, watching the waves roll easily onto the beach when suddenly a single dice rolled onto the patch of sand beside him. He looked down and when he looked back up again Achilles was standing in front of him, his hair swept up into a tangle by the salt and grains of sand clinging to his palms.

"Hello," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry."

The word was thrown casually, almost as an afterthought. It was not an apology, although Patroclus was confused as to why this should make him angry. "It's okay," he muttered.

Achilles bent down and snatched up the dice in his long fingered hands. Warrior's hands. Patroclus watched him suspiciously. "What are you playing?" he asked despite himself.

"Tesserae," the prince replied with a quick, sly smile. "Do you want to play?"

Patroclus shook his head abruptly. "No," he said quickly.

Achilles' eyes narrowed as Patroclus looked away embarrassedly. "Suit yourself," he shrugged.

Patroclus did not answer. He hoped the boy would go away and leave him alone but when he glanced out of the corner of his eye he was still there and his mouth was slightly open, as if he wanted to say something. "Can I help you, prince of Phthia?" he asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Achilles frowned. "Yes," he said bluntly. "What is your name, son of Menoetius?"

"Patroclus."

"Patroclus."

"Yes."

"Why do you hate me Patroclus?"

Startled, Patroclus blinked. Achilles' face was honest and questioning, like a young child's. He fished about wildly for an answer, protesting inarticulately that he would never presume above his status to dislike his most gracious host when Achilles raised his hand with a look of sheer boredom and he fell silent immediately. "Alright that's enough," he said. "If you're going to do nothing but bleat about it I have better things to do than waste my time listening to sheep."

He turned to walk away, leaving Patroclus to open and close his mouth in outrage. _A sheep? _he thought furiously. _A sheep?! And who does he think he is, the prize of the flock? Sheep. I'll give him sheep._

"Prince Achilles!" he called before he could stop himself. The boy stopped in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder, one perfect eyebrow raised expectantly. Patroclus took a breath. "I am not a sheep!"

Achilles fixed him with a stare. It was a wicked thing and his eyes shone with mischief. Patroclus felt himself gulp but he held his gaze proudly until the boy-prince smiled. "We'll see," he said simply. "You can go on hating me if you like, Patroclus Menoitides. It wouldn't be the first time I've seen a man turn to resentment as a result of his envy."

He sniggered as Patroclus' eyes widened in indignation. "I'm not envious of you," he mumbled confusedly. "You're a narcissist. A sycophant. The only reason nobody else will tell you so is because your father is lord of these lands."

"And what are you, then?" Achilles retorted and his eyes flashed bronze. "An exiled prince. A _murderer, _if the rumours are true. No home. No prospects. No conceivable talent."

He flushed at that and Achilles smirked. "Pretty face though," he added. "You might make a good eunuch."

At that moment, Patroclus knew what he was supposed to do. He was to jump up, fix his expression into one of heroic fury, deliver an excellent right hook into the little scrotum's jaw and not stop until he was a bloody pulp in the sand. He had seen it done so many times for insults much less than this, had even done it himself in his father's house. Reputations were built on such actions, heroes born out of impulse and recklessness.

But he remembered where he was. A stranger in a strange land and his adversary was the king of that land's son, with a goddess for a mother and divine blood in his veins. He also remembered the way he fought, the perfect execution of his limbs and the sculpting of his muscles, as though every whisper of his body could speak the word _Kill. _

The twitch of Achilles' lip was enough.

He leapt up and ran at him headfirst, fists raised. He could see Achilles' stupid, smirking face coming closer and closer until he was just about near enough to reach; he raised his arm and swung, expecting the cool touch of knuckle colliding against skin. Instead he felt nothing as his bunched fist fell through clean air, his body following. Achilles had sidestepped out of the way and now grabbed the failed fist, pulling it backwards so that Patroclus was thrown onto the ground and landed in a disgraceful heap at his feet.

He could hear laughing in the background and caught Achilles' glittering smile at the boys watching behind them. He spat out a handful of sand from his mouth. _If you're waiting for the right moment for divine intervention, oh mysterious, hidden patron god of mine, _he prayed silently as more people began to turn to discover the cause of such hilarity, _Now would be a good time. _

"Now now," Achilles sang merrily as Patroclus massaged his wrist. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to respect your betters?"

"You're not better than me," he managed to wince. The laughter grew louder. Achilles wrinkled his nose as if trying to dislodge a fly.

"Maybe in another world," he said. "Where cowardice and inadequacy are admirable values in a man."

"As opposed to vanity and conceit," said Patroclus.

The gathered crowd grew silent as Achilles looked at him. It was only for a moment but for Patroclus, kneeling at his feet and covered in sand it felt like a Golden Age. And as the time passed, slowly like a man dragged by chariot he was not sure if he imagined a faint flicker of humour pass across the prince's face. Then it was over, Achilles offered Patroclus his hand, pulled him to his feet and marched away without a backwards glance, the dice rattling in his hands and he was certain he had imagined it.

Dinner that night was a particularly painful experience. The ballad of Valiant Achilles' Versus the Inglorious Patroclus was the evening's subject of entertainment and wherever Patroclus looked someone was relating the honourable tale to his neighbour, resulting in the standard rambunctious hoot of mirth and a scornful look his way. He pushed the plate away, feeling sick and not trusting himself to swallow. Aware that all eyes were on him he left the hall and went to bed early.

_Listen to them, _he thought bitterly, their voices following him up the stone steps. _With their flattering and their…their…backslapping. "Oh, let me pour your wine, Achilles," "let me braid your hair" "let me wipe your arse for you Achilles"! Gods. This whole place is full of pseuds and donkeys."_

By the time he reached his room he was just about ready to explode with resentment. He opened the door and made ready to scream into his pillow when he stopped, realising there was already someone in there. It was a girl, dressed in one of the short chitons of the servants' quarters and she jumped when he walked in.

"Young master," she murmured, lowering her gaze and bending her knees in respect. "Please forgive your servant the intrusion."

"Intrusion?" Patroclus repeated, perplexed. "Yes. Yes! Intrusion. What are you doing in my room?"

The girl gestured towards the bed with a frown. "Changing the sheets, young master."

"Oh. Right. Sheets." He breathed a sigh of relief, not knowing quite what he had expected. All he knew was that this was Achilles' home, he was likely to have spies everywhere and if he had singled him out as a rival there was no telling quite what a young, female slave might be doing in his bedroom. "Ok. Fine. Good work."

The girl acknowledged the praise. "Is there anything else you would like doing?"

"Wha-? Oh, no," Patroclus shook his head. "All good here. You may go."

She nodded, the frown still playing slightly between her brows. "Forgive me for my impudence," she said slowly. "But might I inquire as to the well- being of my young master?"

"Pardon?"

"Is everything alright?"

"Oh," said Patroclus. "Oh yes, it's fine. Fine, everything's brilliant. Just…the prince can be….but yes, it's fine. Thank you for asking."

"You dislike the prince?" said the girl.

"What? No," Patroclus shook his head quickly. "I never said…I mean…the prince is great! I love the prince!"

"The prince."

"Yes."

"He's a dick."

"Yes. Yes he is." Patroclus exhaled the breath he didn't know he had been holding in.

The girl smiled and Patroclus gave a watery attempt back. "Don't worry about it," she said gently. "If he had it this way we'd all be crawling along the ground like insects. As it is I just try to stay out the way of his big feet."

Patroclus forced a laugh. "Right. I'll remember that. Thank you."

"My pleasure," she smiled again and gave a little bow, closing the door gently behind her.

Patroclus waited until her footsteps had faded down the stone corridor before collapsing onto the neatly made mattress, groaning into the linen. It seemed that even now, in the silence of his chamber he could still hear their echoing laughter, cruel and grinding against his ears. Achilles' words rang loudest of all: "_An exiled prince. A murderer. No home. No prospects. No conceivable talent."_

He sighed a mournful little sigh and turned so that he was facing the window. The moon was bright tonight and large as a coin, almost silvery in the dark sky. It was the kind of moon that the goddess Artemis would bring to light the way for weary travellers and guard those who served her while they slept. Patroclus closed his eyes and muttered a quick prayer. Surly the maiden huntress would take pity on a poor, vulnerable soul such as he, alone and victimised in this hell of charlatans. Surely she could give him peace of mind, for this night at least if not during the day.

If his words fell at all it was on deaf ears, for that night he dreamed of the dead boy.


	4. Leptine

**No Achilles in this one, sorry folks :( next chapter, promise. In the meantime, thank you all so much for your lovely reviews. They are like the spinach to my Popeye.**

**soso22 - Thank you, glad you liked it!**

**Sarah - My Gods woman your vocabulary. Put a leash on that mouth before it runs away from you.**

**Guest - Alright point made ;) thank you. (wtf my friends are such extremes.)**

**sunamikei - Aha thank you so much! For some reason they come very easily to me, probably because I read far too much fanfiction. I'll try!**

~four~

_Tesserae._

_The dice fits comfortably in his hands, the edges and corners just poking into the flat of his thumb. He runs a finger over the surprising smoothness, counting the sides and the little ridges. Funny, he thinks, that I am playing with that with which I need to play. It is very awkward irony but he speaks it aloud and the other boys gawp at him as they would a philosopher._

_One look at their admiring faces is enough to convince him that he rather likes being drunk._

_A thousand empty bottles lay cluttered around the board, nestling between dirty naked feet and sticky hands. It all has the stale, slightly musty smell of his father's store cupboard but it is strong and needs a lot of water. It occurs to him that he might have got the ratio wrong; quantities confuse him in this state, but he also decides he doesn't care. Looking around him everyone is laughing with a girl on his lap and he feels strong, so very, very strong._

_Everyone sees the foul throw but Clysonymus is a big boy, built like a battering ram and his father is staying in one of the palace's nicer rooms. He has gotten away with it before now and it's not fair, he thinks, not when it's my dice and my kingdom is so much bigger than his. And he feels so very strong._

_He is not sure who throws the first punch. All he knows is that he is alone and that he is staring down at the broken fragments of a man's skull. It litters the rock, like the cracked shell of a nut, and runs a river over his bare feet and somewhere he thinks he hears a God laugh…_

"PATROCLUS!"

"I'm sorry father!" Patroclus wailed and opened his eyes, expecting to meet the stern, condemning face of Menoetius, with its pointed beard and eyes averted in embarrassment. Instead he found himself staring into the ruddy, red-cheeked, flushed fury of his drill master.

"FATHER?" Ampelius bellowed and the ground seemed to shake beneath him. _"FATHER?!"_

"Sorry sir," Patroclus cringed as the boys behind him tried to stifle their sniggers. "Slip of the tongue."

"LET ME ASK YOU SOMETHING BOY," he continued to roar. "SINCE THE FIRST DAY OF YOUR TRAINING IN THE ARTS OF WARCRAFT, WHEN YOU GAVE THAT _ABYSMAL _SHOWING OF YOUR MILITARY TALENT, HAVE I EVER ONCE SUGGESTED THAT I SHOULD LIKE TO BE EVEN YOUR MOST DISTANT RELATIVE?"

"No sir," said Patroclus.

"DO I LOOK LIKE DADDY?"

"No sir."

"DO I SOUND LIKE DADDY?"

"Gods no, sir."

"NO! I DO NOT SOUND LIKE DADDY. BECAUSE I AM NOT YOUR FATHER, I HAVE NEVER BEEN YOUR FATHER, AND, JUST TO MAKE IT VERY CLEAR, I HAVE NO SON!"

"No sir," said Patroclus dully. "But you see, that's exactly what he said."

For a moment he thought Ampelius might beat him. He held his breath and waited for the giant, hammer-like fists to come down but then the drill instructor shook his great, shaggy head and sighed a mournful little sigh.

"I don't know what to do with you today, lad," he said sadly. "For one thing you can barely keep your eyes open. You fell asleep in the middle of a chariot race and in the spear toss you just about turned Calisthenes into a fruit kebab."

"Yeah," said Calisthenes. "Thanks for that."

"What's gotten into you this morning?" he continued. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not like you're a whole lot better on a normal day. But at the moment…Pegasus with dysentery would call you shit."

The boys tittered and Patroclus looked up. Almpelius' round face was creased with a frown and he was looking down at him as though he desperately wanted to understand. But far from making him feel better, if anything, the genuine concern in his voice only made Patroclus feel a little more like dying. "It's nothing sir," he replied quietly. "I just…I didn't sleep well."

The empty shell of the dead boy swam into his head through a scarlet flood and he squeezed his eyes tight to shut him out. Ampelius shook his head again and scratched the back of his neck. "Well," he began. "I thought we might try the javelin again this afternoon, that's if Menoitides here can even lift the damn thing in his state, but I've left them in the storeroom for cleaning. Patroclus, you run a long and get them. And don't you dare tarry or I _will _give you something to tell daddy about."

Patroclus gave a quick nod and sprinted off the field, ears burning. This, he thought furiously, was not his fault. Zeus or some other cruel deity had tortured his night with dreams and now every time he closed his eyes he saw Clysonymus, staring and white. He had not slept, only tossed and turned in a fitful spell, twisting the linen sheets into sweaty knots around him. Sometimes the boy reached for him and he swore he could feel his touch, like an icy breath on his forehead and sometimes he spoke. He could never understand him though, for his words were too soft and too condemning. The slow speech of Hades.

It was only when he was back inside and the stone walls cast their gloomy shadow once again that it dawned on him. He had no idea where the storeroom was. The realisation sent a sickness into his stomach. He couldn't go back and ask Ampelius, the look on his face when he'd called him "father" had shaken him enough. Besides, the idea of having to turn around and face the group of snickerers and tormenters again was unthinkable. But if he took too long he knew Ampelius wouldn't think twice about thrashing him in front of the other boys _which is not happening, _he told himself, _never ever, ever._

He looked around fretfully for inspiration. Ahead there were three corridors; one which he knew led to the Main Hall and two others which remained untried. _Fine, this is fine, _he thought calmly. _I'll just keep turning left until I meet someone I can ask. _And with a surprising decisiveness he took the left corridor and headed down it without looking back.

It didn't take him long to discover that the majority of passages in Peleus' house looked pretty much identical. Apparently the palace architect had wanted to represent the equality of the Phthian people and the unanimity of the nation by designing a building of complete symmetric likeness. A touching display of patriotic pride perhaps but it was lost on Patroclus who was beginning to feel more and more like Theseus winding his way through the Minotaur's labyrinth. His rule of left did not appear to be working particularly well, he had seen no one and so could not ask if he was even allowed in this particular wing and was becoming uncomfortably aware of how big the palace really was. What's more the hallways seemed to be never ending and although there were plenty of doors on his left and right he came to no dead ends.

_This is ridiculous, _he thought, dodging a low-hanging torch bracket. _Why on earth does Peleus need a palace this size? He might as well have built a citadel on a molehill! _He took another left, grumbling to himself and stopped, realising that the hallway had at last reached its end. A single door, marked with the characters that meant _slaves only _was set into the stone, gleaming mahogany with a bronze handle. _This must be it. All the other rooms are for attendants and visitors. _Quickly he reached for the knob, pushed the door open, and fell through darkness.

"AAAAGGGGGGHHHHH!"

"EEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIKKKK!"

"Oh my Gods! Who's there?! Show yourself!"

He grasped around blindly, his heart hammering in his ears until he felt his fingers clasp around something soft. Whatever it was pulled away and he stumbled and slipped, landing painfully on his front. "Ouch," he groaned pathetically and groaned again as a light grew and swelled before his eyes.

"Young master?" whispered the voice behind the light.

Patroclus rubbed his eyes and managed to haul himself into a sitting position. It was coming from a lantern and holding the lantern was a slave girl, the same girl who had made his bed the previous night. She was watching him with her mouth slightly open, as if she gazed upon a ghost or apparition rather than a scrawny teenage boy who had taken a wrong turn and landed in a disgraceful heap at her feet.

"Hello," said Patroclus and got to his feet. As his eyes adjusted to the new brightness he saw himself surrounded by an assortment of different vials and bottles, pitchers and amphorae. There was not a javelin in sight. "This is not the storeroom."

"Oh my gods," said the girl. "I am so sorry! It's my fault…I should have seen…Gods, I'm sorry-"

"-Huh? No, don't be sorry," he shook his head ardently. "It's my fault completely. I wasn't looking. Well obviously, I couldn't see-"

"-But you're hurt!" she cut him off with a gasp, pointing at his knee.

Patroclus looked down. There was a gash of blood running steadily down his leg. "Oh, it's just a graze," he replied dismissively, bending to wipe it away. "See? No problem."

Still the girl stared in horror, lips moving without forming words. "My Gods," she said again. "I swear I never…I'm so sorry…please forgive your errant slave, master-"

"-Honestly it's fine!" he insisted. "Like I said, it was my fault. I mean, I shouldn't even be down here."

"This is true," the girl nodded, biting her lip nervously. "Um…why are you down here?"

"I'm looking for the storeroom," Patroclus replied. "And I think I'm lost."

"I think so too," said the girl. "This is a wine cellar."

"Yes," said Patroclus uncomfortably, looking around in interest. "That would explain the…um…wine."

He finished lamely and she gave a sweet, nervous laugh which he returned with a half-smile. "Come on," she said and took his hand. "I'll show you."

She led him back up the steps leading to the cellar and into the hallway. The glare of natural light hit Patroclus hard and he found he had to squint to look at her while she, accustomed as she was to the dim of the servant's quarters, moved easily through the maze of stone and marble. He saw that she was young, round about his own age in fact, with the light brown skin and dark eyes of an Easterner. Her step was very light and she reminded him of one of the small, cautious, quick-footed creatures that dwelt in the woods back home.

"The main route is back the way you came, then you take a right and then another right but I know a much quicker way," she explained.

"Right," Patroclus nodded awkwardly. "Listen, I really am sorry about this. I hope I haven't gotten you into trouble or anything…You've probably got more important things to do…"

"Well yes, I do," she admitted. "But to be honest I think I'd much rather be helping you then assisting Phoenix with his _oiling."_

The idea of the king's chief advisor, stripped, naked and glistening with oil in all his eighty-year old glory was not a particularly welcome one. "That's…pretty disgusting."

"It is isn't it?" she agreed. "Here, this way."

She led him through a series of secret and disconnected passageways, Patroclus guessed used only by slaves when they wanted to appear invisible. His mother had often said that the mark of a good slave was if you didn't even know they were there and he had often wondered how they did their jobs so quickly and so discreetly. Now he knew.

"Gods, you really know your way around this place," he observed, bending to avoid hitting a very low ceiling.

"Well I should do, I've been here since I was six," she said. "I wouldn't be much of a slave if I didn't, young master."

"Please, enough of all this 'young master' stuff," Patroclus cringed. "We're about the same age, for one thing."

"Then what should I call you?" she asked. "Menoitides?"

"No," he shook his head quickly. "Patroclus. Just…Patroclus. And you?"

She looked at him, puzzled. "Huh?"

"What do I call you? What's your name?"

"Oh," her big eyes widened in surprise and it suddenly dawned on Patroclus that she probably wasn't used to hearing that very often. "Leptine. Everyone calls me Leptine."

"It's nice to meet you Leptine," said Patroclus and Leptine smiled shyly.

Leptine's knowledge of the palace meant they reached the storeroom quickly and she helped carry the javelins back with him. As they walked Patroclus told her all about his troubles with the other boys, how failure seemed to follow him whatever he did and how even his drill master looked at him with exasperation. He mentioned his encounter with Achilles and she clucked her tongue impatiently at his name and tutted sympathetically when he described his humiliating attempt to fight him. "That boy is spoiled," she said angrily. "His father could give him the kingdom and he'd complain that it isn't as big as Mycenae. I just don't understand how no one else sees it. You should hear some of the other girls talk about him, as if it were Adonis' chitons they were laundering."

"I can imagine," muttered Patroclus glumly, thinking of the way his shoulders flashed in the sunlight, like hard bronze.

They reached the big archway leading to the playing fields and Leptine handed Patroclus the javelins. "I suppose I'd better get to the baths," she said gloomily. "Phoenix is old, but he won't sleep forever."

"Unless he dies," Patroclus suggested.

Leptine laughed. "Well it was nice to meet you," she smiled her small, guarded smile.

"Thank you so much," said Patroclus. "Gods know what I would have done if I hadn't…um…ran into you. I hope I see you around."

"I daresay you will," she replied brightly. "It's not all that big a house, for all its paths."

She bowed, gave him a fluttery little wave and headed back inside. Patroclus watched her go, her unbound hair tangling in the slight wind and was suddenly aware of the inexplicable feeling that perhaps he was not so alone after all.


	5. Amyntor

**Sorry it's taken me so long to get this up here, I've been very busy recently in places with very limited Internet connection. You can imagine my pain.** **A massive thank you to all of you who have taken the time to read and review this, your comments make me smile on a bad day. Please keep them coming and let me know what you like and what I could improve.**

**soso - So do I to be honest! Soon I promise!**

**sunamikei - Thanks, if there is one thing I really can't stand it's unrealistic romance. I'm trying hard to make their relationship as believable as possible (hence the torturous build up) so thanks for understanding! As from now things are about to pick up!**

**IliadFan - You're right, a lot of this is based on and has huge influence from Madeline Miller's SoA but I did in fact originally intend for it to be fully Iliad based. Unfortunately it's difficult to be lighthearted and humorous yet still capture the essence of Homer's epics so it kind of turned trash fiction pretty quickly. But hey, I'm enjoying writing it and I'm so pleased you're enjoying it too, despite the initial disappointment! Sorry for this misguidance!**

~five~

Patroclus knew he was in trouble before he stepped through the door.

When you have lived a life of relentless injustice and victimisation you learn to develop a sixth sense for these things. A subtle change in the air, a thickness of atmosphere, a face that looks up when you enter a room, all catlike smiles and _I know something that you don't. _Next thing he knew he was sitting in front of King Peleus, backed by three of his chief advisors, watching the old man shake his head sadly and saying "Dear, dear, dear."

"But I haven't _done _anything," he protested feebly.

Phoenix, Amyntor and Cleitus exchanged looks of disbelief. Peleus shook his head sadly. "Now see here lad," Phoenix began. "It'll be a whole lot better for you if you just tell the truth. No point in all this unnecessary ugliness."

"Tell the truth about _what?" _asked Patroclus.

Cleitus snorted derisively. _"'Tell the truth about what'_," he snarled "As if you did not know."

"But I don't know," said Patroclus.

"Enough!" snapped Amyntor. "Stop playing the innocent! Accept it like a _man, _by Herkules and admit to your crime!"

"But I haven't committed any crime!"

"'_Haven't committed any crime'_," mocked Cleitus. "Right. _Sure."_

"It may not appear very serious to you, Patroclus," said Phoenix gently. "I'm sure you meant no harm. But I'm afraid it _is _quite a serious matter and your little joke has cost us rather dear, not to mention a fair share of damage."

"Damage?" Patroclus repeated, perplexed. "What are you talking about?"

"The COWS, boy!" answered Amyntor. "We're talking about the goddamned cows!"

They stood there, eyes narrowed, waiting expectantly for his reply. Patroclus searched each face for some humour, for some clue that this was just a big stupid joke and soon they would all burst out laughing and send him back to his room with a clap on the back and a wine in hand. But there was none. He took a breath. "I'm sorry," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "But I still don't know why I'm here."

The three advisors looked at each other. Peleus was still shaking his head, only he had now moved on to twiddling his thumbs and gazing interestedly at the ceiling. Amyntor leaned forward until his face was inches from Patroclus'. "You are here," he said very slowly, as if it was costing him a great effort to stay calm. "Because _someone _snuck into the king's fields, opened the gates for the king's herd and led them all into the king's Great Hall, resulting in a thousand tripods' worth of damage and the consumption of at least four tapestries! Four bloody tapestries! And we have reason to believe that that someone was _you."_

"Ok," said Patroclus. "Except it wasn't."

"'_Except it wasn't,'"_ jeered Cleitus. "Shut up."

"It wasn't!" he insisted. "I don't even know where the king's fields are!"

"There is no point in denying it," said Phoenix tiredly. "You were seen."

Patroclus stared in disbelief. Amyntor and Cleitus crossed their arms and glared down at him with triumphant disdain. "I was seen," he repeated, trying to make sense of the words in his own head. "By who?"

"Oh you would like to know wouldn't you," sneered Amyntor. "What would you do, go and finish him off like you did the last?"

"It wasn't like that," Patroclus sighed. "Look, I really am sorry about the cows. But someone is obviously trying to frame me so if you could just let me -"

"-Save your breath coward," snapped Cleitus. "And keep your forked tongue behind your teeth."

Patroclus fell back in his seat, seething and blinked back furious tears. _This is not right, _his head yelled. _This is not right, this is not right._

"A gambler, a murderer, and now a petty prankster," said Amyntor. "We have no choice. The boy must be punished."

The three heads turned and each pair of beetle black eyes settled on Peleus' glazed, absentminded blue. There was a silence while the King of Phthia twiddled his mottled grey thumbs and hummed, idly in time with the beat of Patroclus' own heart. Suddenly, Peleus gave a raspy, phlegm-filled cough and fixed Patroclus with a gaze that pinned him fast to the hard back of his chair, a scrutiny that filled him with an ice fear that none of the advisors' pitiless threats had yet to manage.

"Menoitides," said Peleus and Patroclus felt a cold thing slither beneath his skin. "This is a most serious matter."

Patroclus blinked and swallowed as the king gave another hoarse cough and pulled the thick furs he wore over his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Patroclus shifted in his seat, realising with a pang that he had never been more afraid of an old man.

"You were sent here," Peleus continued. "With hopes of redemption. Generously I accepted you into my home and this is how you repay my kindness."

"Please sir," Patroclus attempted. "I never meant-"

"-Be silent," said Peleus, raising a milk-white palm and Patroclus lowered his head. "I have heard enough. Amyntor is right. You must be punished."

The three advisors looked smug. Peleus cleared his throat again and continued. "However," he said. "We must be sure not to look too harshly upon the nature of boys. It is not a lesson of violence that you need but one of discipline. You must learn that you are no longer a prince of Opus but a servant of Phthia. And there is only one way a boy can learn such a lesson."

For a moment, Peleus' eyes were hard as whetstones as he surveyed Patroclus. He held his breath like a man drowning and his palms were wet, as a convict who receives his sentence. "Patroclus, son of Menoitides, exiled prince of Opus," Peleus began and his voice seemed to echo the deep tones of a judge. "I condemn you to three months of enforced service. For now on you will be treated as little more than a slave. You will sleep in the servants' quarters, you will speak only when spoken to and you will carry out every single task ordered by your superiors until it is clear to me that you have learnt the obedience and restraint of an honoured citizen."

So he spoke and to Patroclus each word was like the drop of a heavy stone on his skull. Finally he folded his blue veined hands and asked "What say you to this?" and Patroclus stared back in stunned disbelief, his mouth moving stupidly and soundlessly. Three months of enforced service. Three months of ordered slavery. Death would have been quicker, and a thrashing less painful. _Say no, _his mind screamed _say you'd rather die. _But there was only one answer one could give a king.

"I…" he stuttered and gulped. "There is nothing for a slave to say to his master."

The king nodded approvingly. Amyntor, however, looked furious. "Begging your pardon my lord," he whispered angrily. "But the boy has committed a civic _offense_. Theft and vandalism against the king! Three months of scrubbing floors is unlikely to discourage such delinquent behaviour."

"We should leave him on a mountain with a fishbone and a slingshot," nodded Cleitus. "That's what they do in Sparta."

"But we are not _in_ Sparta," said Phoenix firmly. "Nor are we Spartans. Truth, this boy has done wrong, as we all do when we are young. Show him the compassion you yourself would expect. Besides, my lord is right. Violence will only encourage him. We don't want to make him a martyr."

"So it is settled," coughed Peleus. "Henceforth you will be stripped of your name and title. You will address your peers as 'sir' and you will answer to the orders of any man in this house. Go and take care of your belongings. Amyntor will show you to your new quarters."

Amyntor shot Patroclus a filthy look as he got to his feet, mumbled a hasty "As it please you my lord" and hurried speedily from the room. His heart was still pounding in his ears and his skin felt clammy and cold as he raced up the steps to where, up till now, had been his chambers. He could still feel their steely black eyes on the back of his neck, even upon slamming the door shut and sinking pathetically to the floor.

It was only then that he was able to fully comprehend the unfairness of the situation. Someone in the group had pulled the stupid prank with the cows and it was he, Patroclus, who was getting the blame. _"You were seen," _Phoenix had said. By who? Who had it out for him so badly as to risk getting caught by the king himself? He thought back to the other day, sat beneath the tree on the beach. _"Didn't your mother ever teach you to respect your betters?" _Well. Here was a lesson he was unlikely to forget in a hurry.

He packed his things quickly, reluctant to keep Amyntor waiting and left his room with a bag as heavy as his deadened guts. The advisor stood at the foot of the steps, his lips curved in a loathsome snarl. He barely spared his charge a glance before turning on his heel and marching straight down one of the darkest corridors, leaving Patroclus to stumble anxiously after him.

"This passage will soon become very known to you," he stated without looking. "Can you remember the way?"

"Yes," muttered Patroclus darkly.

"Yes what?"

"Yes _sir," _Patroclus snarled.

Amyntor tossed him a black look and said nothing. They walked the rest of the way in silence, their boots echoing across the marble and to Patroclus it seemed that his steps were growing quieter, muffled against the gloomy dark until at long last they came to a tiny wooden door set into the rough grey stone. The hinges were brilliant orange with rust and the surface had chipped to splinters. Patroclus stared at it dully, watching it grow smaller before his eyes.

"Your room, my lord prince," said Amyntor mockingly, almost wrenching the little door from its cavity.

Patroclus peered round the man's arm and for a moment was confused. Did the king truly mean for him to sleep in a hole? Then he realised. There was no light in this part of the palace, save for a few wavering candles dripping wax from their stubs. The bobbing flames cast dim shadows on already shrunken faces, shying coyly away as if their entering had burned them. The quarters were tiny, yet there had to be at least a hundred bodies pressed into the nooks and crevices, all of whom were watching Patroclus warily. Patroclus looked back into their wide-eyed, distrusting faces and felt faintly sick.

"Leptine!" barked Amyntor. Patroclus heard startled rustling from the corner, like that of a disturbed mouse and the young girl who had rescued him only a few days past broke from the shadows.

"Yes my lord?" Leptine answered, her eyes flickering nervously over Patroclus' perplexed face.

"Teach Menoitides the ways and workings of this house. He is to be one of you now. Show him how things are done. Teach him what it is to be a slave," his lips twisted into a crude leer.

"And if he will not learn, my lord?" asked Leptine nervously.

"We shall make him," he replied and left abruptly, slamming the door behind him with a force that made the whole frame quiver.

Patroclus turned and surveyed the many faces watching him. Most were confused, a few were suspicious. Leptine, however, looked as though she had been smacked in the forehead by the sun.

"I hoped I'd see you again," she said brightly. "But what's going on? What is Amyntor talking about?"

Patroclus sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. "It's a long story," he replied, feeling suddenly very tired. "But I suppose I have three months to tell it."

Leptine listened in sympathetic silence as Patroclus unloaded on her the whole sad, sorry tale and when he was finished she abused the prince, the advisors and the society in which they lived with such aggression that he even felt a little bit better. But as sorry as she was, she informed him gently, there was very little they could do and they would all save themselves some pain if he could just stick out his punishment, do as he was told and try not to upset anyone.

"You're one of us now," she told him with her melancholy smile. "That means they can treat you like one of us."

And that was how Patroclus found himself in a starched yellow chiton, scrubbing the floors of the Great Hall.

On reflection, he found himself thinking, this really wasn't all that bad a punishment. True, his knees were skinned red from kneeling on the stone and his lower back ached to Hades. But the room was cool and pleasantly dim, a welcome relief from the stifling wet heat of Phthian summer and the palace was blessedly quiet. The lords had gone hunting, Peleus was resting in his chambers and the boys were outside for morning drills. A slow smile crept up Patroclus' face as he thought about them all, sweltering under the ruthless sun, Ampelius' heat-induced rage ringing in their ears.

The resounding scrape of wood against stone blew away all thoughts of calm as Patroclus snatched up the sodden rag and immediately sped up his strokes. He looked up uneasily as the huge double doors opened, revealing the last person on Gaia's green earth he wanted to see.

"Hey," said Achilles. "Are you busy?"

Patroclus looked at him. He was lounging against the doorframe with his standard, detestable nonchalance; his thumbs tucked idly into the low belt hanging off his slim hips. Hot anger flared in Patroclus' chest, mixed with a desire to slam the door into his face and not stop until he was nothing but blood on the stone. "Yes," he answered shortly and turned away.

Achilles ignored him and proceeded to pace around the room. Patroclus tried to keep his eyes fixed on the soap sopped patch in front of him but his gaze kept drifting to where Achilles' feet touched the ground _one and two and three, _lightly with the grace of a dancer. Then he noticed the dirt clinging to his heels, and now to the floor. _His _floor.

"I just _did _there," he blurt out in irritation.

Achilles stopped and looked down. He shrugged. "Sorry."

_Sorry. _He kept saying that but Patroclus wondered if he knew what the word even meant. "Did you want something?" he asked. "Or are you just here to revel in your triumph?"

Achilles frowned. "I came to see you."

"I'm flattered," said Patroclus in a tone that suggested he was really, really not.

"Good," grinned Achilles. "You're learning something."

Patroclus rolled his eyes and returned to scrubbing the floor. Achilles stood there, watching him. Finally Patroclus looked back up, irritably. _"What?" _

"I can't move," his voice was smug.

_Gods above. _"When your mother held you in the Styx how tight was her hold? Or was it your wet nurse who dropped you on your head?"

"And what kind of a way is that for a slave to talk to his prince? I should have you flogged."

"Then why don't you?" Patroclus snarled back. "Save us both this pointless conversation."

He didn't quite know what he was expecting to happen. All he knew was that this boy, this so-called godchild brought out the dissenter in him and that he could not control himself, even if he'd wanted to. It was as if Achilles had kindled a fire in his gut, a long suppressed spark that was growing to flame and setting him alight with a sort of rebellious excitement. He did not care what Achilles did as long as he knew what he thought of him, and as long as he considered him a force to be reckoned with.

What he did not expect was for Achilles to look down at his feet, averting Patroclus' gaze and start to nibble on his lower lip. If he hadn't known better, Patroclus would have said he was nervous. "I need to tell you something," he began carefully. "I never meant for…this…to happen."

He gestured awkwardly at Patroclus kneeling on the floor, the rag in his hands oozing suds into the puddle of water at his feet. Patroclus snorted derisively. "Right," he said. "Okay. As if you _hadn't_ got it out for me from day one. As if this wasn't _exactly _what you intended when you told the king it was me who pulled that prank with those stupid bloody cows-"

"-But that's what I'm saying," said Achilles hurriedly. "It wasn't me."

Patroclus stared. "Huh?"

"I mean, not the cows. That was me. But I didn't tell father it was you. I would never do that."

"Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"I didn't!" Achilles protested ardently. "It wouldn't be honourable."

"_Honourable?"_ Patroclus repeated in disbelief. "Since when do you give two shits about _honour?"_

"It's _all_ I give a shit for," Achilles retorted. "Honour and glory. Everything else is ephemeral."

"I think you're confusing honour with egoism."

"Maybe," a flash of wicked smile. "But whatever my philosophy, it's served me better than yours has you."

"Perhaps that's because I don't centre my philosophy on serving myself."

"Evidently," said Achilles with a nod to the bucket at his elbow. "But whatever, believe what you like. I just thought I'd tell you. And I don't lie."

"If not you then who was it?" Patroclus challenged.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Could have been anyone. A lot of people have it in for you, Patroclus. You present an easy target. It comes with not being like the rest of them."

"Right," nodded Patroclus. "Well apologies my lord, but I'm _not_ like the rest of them. So you'll excuse me if I don't happily swallow up your bullshit."

It was a step too far. Achilles' eyes narrowed and in that moment, Patroclus recalled the whispered rumours circulating the servant's quarters and the palace walls, the inhuman tense of his arms and back, the gold of divinity in his eyes. "Fine," he said and his voice was like wind on the sea. "Play it that way. I_ was_ on my way to tell father that it was me who put the cows in the Hall and to lift your punishment…but I don't think I will now."

Something cold and slimy twisted in Patroclus' gut as he looked up, furiously, into Achilles' beautiful, sneering face. "You must do as your honour commands, my prince," he replied with more bravery than he felt.

"I will," said Achilles. "And what's more it will do you well to remember, slave Menoitides, that as my servant I can ask you to do _anything _I want."

Patroclus almost dropped the rag he was holding. There was something in Achilles' voice that made him feel suddenly very warm and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. "And what would my lord have his servant do?"

"I don't know yet," Achilles replied with a sly smile. "I haven't given it much thought. But don't worry. I'll let you know."

And with that he turned abruptly and left, slamming the huge double doors behind him and leaving a trail of dirty footprints behind, gleaming laughingly from the polished grey stone.


	6. Attendance

**Bit of a big chapter this one, and bursting grossly with sexual tension. Never let it be said I don't treat you.**

**Again, thank you to all my reviewers, please keep them coming! I especially want to know what you think of this one, and anything I might be able to do to improve it.**

~six~

As the days stretched into weeks Patroclus realised he had made a mistake in taking his new position so lightly. Every morning, before Dawn had even so much as stretched her legs he would be up; turning sheets, heating water and cleaning straw, yawning and rubbing sluggishly at his eyes in the morning cold. He would then return to his quarters for a breakfast of dry, grey bread and dates before beginning the day's tasks, all of which were long, arduous and incredibly boring.

It was not so bad when Leptine was with him. Through shy beginnings of tentative, polite smalltalk they had begun to reveal more of themselves to the other, weaving whole webs of history with the threads of casual conversation until one day, Patroclus realised they had reached the stage where they could say just about anything and whether with a word, or a smile, or just a look which said _I get you _their world was just a little more calm. Patroclus had never been gotten by anybody before and he wondered how many nights Leptine had lain awake waiting for someone to tell her dreams to.

She was true to her word, leading him back and forth along the secret workings and inner passages of the palace until he could trace them in his sleep. She taught him how to flit silently as a moth from one room to another and how to step lightly across the stone like a cat with no shadow. She taught him when best to speak and when to keep quiet and, most importantly, when to listen and leave without getting caught.

"If you cannot hear you will not get far," she whispered, one ear pressed to a door. "We slaves are soldiers. Our sword is secrets. Our shield is gossip. And our fight is survival."

She taught him how to tell from one sniff if a wine was very old or very young. She showed him how best to skim the curds from the milk and make them into butter or cheese. She even revealed to him the coveted art of herb lore; which roots cured stomach ache and which cleared the throat from infection, the flower that could drive a man insane with lust and the one that brought on a deep and dreamless sleep, the sap from one plant which could with three drops cure almost any ailment known to man and with four bring an instant and painful death.

"Not all slaves know this kind of thing mind," she told him matter-of-factly, chopping roots with a silver knife. "It's not something you just pick up. You have to be taught and you have to know what you're doing. One wrong ingredient and Phoenix's simple sleeping draught will have him on the privy for weeks and limping for months."

"So where did you learn it all?" asked Patroclus, scattering the leaves into boiling water. He was getting better with distinguishing between shape and colour but still had trouble measuring sizes and quantities.

"My mother taught me," Leptine replied. "She was the wise-woman of our village and knew all manner of spells and plant properties. I never had her gift but the little I know serves me well enough. A slave with a skill is worth more than a brothel can afford."

There was something in her voice, the bluntness with which she spoke about her past that made Patroclus sad and a little guilty for reasons he could not quite explain. Leptine was not from Greece but from far away to the East where the people were brown-skinned and dark and spoke the deep, melodic tones of the Anatolian tongue. When she was nine her village was raided and she was sold into captivity, thrown onto a ship and sent across the Aegean Sea to live in a strange land with a new name. Since then she had served in four different homes for four different masters, spoken five languages and worshiped more Gods than she could remember. Seven years has erased nearly all signs of her former accent, yet when she spoke of her old life her eyes grew bright with memory and sometimes, at night, Patroclus would catch a murmur of whispered prayer to a nameless, half-animal God and fall asleep with the faint rustle of hooves in his ears.

"So with this," he picked up a red flower with large round petals. "You can get rid of a man's pain or send him into hallucination, just like that?"

"Not with that you can't," said Leptine. "You have to extract the milk from the bud. But yes, in theory."

"And this," a star-shaped purple plant with a bright yellow centre. "Treats memory loss, shows the future _and_ acts as a poison?"

"And then there's torture," Leptine reminded.

"Do you realise how much power you actually have here?" Patroclus gaped wonderingly, turning the plant over in his hands. "I mean…with these ingredients…you could do anything. All those people who mistreated you or…or…hurt you. You could get them back with one drop of this or this. No one would dare harm you again," a lifetime of injustice, a hundred contemptuous faces bled away like the prick of a thorn. "You'd be untouchable."

Leptine surveyed him thoughtfully. "I know what you're thinking," she said gently. "But you can't play around with things like this. They're meant to heal but they can also be incredibly dangerous. I couldn't risk something going wrong. Besides, the Gods get angry if you abuse their gifts. They're supposed to help people, not serve as revenge."

Patroclus wasn't sure that his Gods were quite as charitable as hers but he let it lie. Still, as they prepared Peleus' rheumatism tonic he could not quite keep out the image of slipping a discreet something into Amyntor's wine…or Cleitus'…or Achilles'…

"Patroclus," Leptine's voice cut sharply through the fantasy.

"What?" he blinked innocently.

Leptine shook her head. _"No."_

"Oh _come on," _he begged. "Just a little of the nightshade. Or the cassava root. He deserves it!"

"I don't care if he kills your father and beds your sister, I'm not poisoning the prince," she retorted. "And he's requested a wine serving at noon so you'd better go clean yourself up."

Patroclus stared in protest. "Why me?"

"He asked for you specifically. Have fun."

Groaning, Patroclus left the kitchen and made his way to one of the many rooms belonging to the prince and his friends, muttering darkly to himself. Ever since the conversation in the Hall Achilles had also been true to his word, having Patroclus perform every single task that came to him. Big or small, simple or crippling it made no difference. So far he had been ordered to stack Achilles' weaponry in order of size and weight, only to watch the prince send it back into its usual state of anarchic confusion, "the way he preferred it", immediately afterwards. He had also had him peel a dozen apples before serving them to his horse and given him the impossible task of filling the palace cauldron with hot water. It had only taken him two hours to realise that somebody had riddled the bottom with holes.

He found him in one of the palace's bigger rooms, lounging across a couch in his trademark position with one leg dangling off the arm. Grouped around him were five or so boys mimicking similar poses, laughing too jovially and talking too loudly in sickeningly obvious attempts to get his attention. Achilles, however, ignored them, looking bored as he always did and was busy staring into space when Patroclus walked in.

"Ahem," Patroclus announced feebly and the boys looked up. At once Achilles snapped out of his self-induced trance, flashing his most taunting smile.

"Lord Patroclus," he purred and the room fell silent. "How gracious of you to join us."

Patroclus glanced round the room. The faces were excited and smiling, their chests bursting with baited anticipation. What jolly game was their clever prince playing now? And how could they join in?

"Look boys," Achilles continued in a voice of velvet poison. "Look how the prince of Opus takes time out of his busy day to honour us with his most venerated presence."

The boys tittered. Achilles smiled and their eyes locked. Patroclus saw in them the glint of humour, the impish narrowing of mischief and he wondered how long Achilles had been waiting in sheer, devastating boredom for him to walk through that door. _If only he was alone, _he found himself wishing. _I could take him if he was alone._

But unwilling to make a spectacle in front of all these young lords, he inclined his head graciously. "You sent for me, my lord?"

For a moment, Patroclus thought he saw a hint of disappointment cross the prince's face. Then it was gone and the smile was back, mocking and contemptuous. "I'm thirsty," he said.

Patroclus nodded and crossed over to the other side of the room. A decanter of wine and a tray of silver goblets had been set on a corner table and he poured them measurably, taking care to observe the water to wine ratio as Leptine had taught him. He then handed one to Achilles first before passing goblets to his company and waited anxiously as they raised the wine to their lips. Achilles took a steady sip, swallowed and grimaced.

"A little thin," he stated. "Are you sure you've got enough wine in there?"

_I have, you know I have. _"Quite sure, my lord."

"Well I'm not," Achilles shrugged. "I think we could do with it being quite a bit stronger, what do you think?"

This question he tossed at his friends who promptly raised their glasses and cheered as if on cue. Patroclus suppressed the sinking feeling in his gut and went to refill the decanter. He knew, as no doubt Achilles did too, about Peleus' views on the boys drinking strong wine. Only a few months ago the fosterlings had been resigned to drinking half-and-half with added milk to curb the potency further. "A man who cannot rule his own mind cannot possibly hope to rule a kingdom," he had often heard him tell his son. But it was either this or disobey a direct order.

Patroclus filled the goblets much to the boys' delight and waited patiently for Achilles to taste. Again he winced. "No," he shook his head. "Still not getting it."

He held the goblet out for re-filling. Patroclus hesitated. Achilles looked up, frowning curiously. "Patroclus," he said softly. "I asked for more wine."

Patroclus bit his lip nervously. "But your father-"

"-My father," interrupted Achilles. "Is not here. I'm thirsty. My friends are thirsty. Would you have us drink this swill?"

"More wine!" chorused one of the boys and the others echoed in a loud, brazen chant. "More wine! More wine!"

Achilles looked at Patroclus and offered an apologetic grin. "The public wants what the public gets," he said.

Patroclus glared at him and went back to fetch the decanter. By the third fill most of the boys were already half-drunk with hilarity and juvenile rebellion but when Patroclus turned to go Achilles stopped him. "Stay," he commanded. "I may have more need of you."

And so Patroclus found himself glued to a corner, watching as the movements became more deliberate and the sentences began to make less and less sense. Soon the whole room was filled with raucous laughter and nonsensical anecdotes and Patroclus felt as though he had stepped into another time, another place where he did not belong and yet could think of no way to escape. _Please let nothing break, _he prayed desperately. _Please may no one kill each other. _He tried not to imagine how worse his punishment would be if the king found out it had been Patroclus who had let his son kill himself out of drunken disobedience.

And yet, he realised, watching out of the corner of his eye, Achilles had barely touched his own glass and was lying regally on the couch, surveying the scene before him with a mixture of amusement and scorn. It was then that it occurred to Patroclus that Achilles, it seemed, felt nothing for these people he called "friends", except for a mild disgust he didn't even try to disguise. They were just all too reeling with delusion to see it. The thought made Patroclus feel strangely satisfied.

Achilles kept Patroclus there for an hour or so, having him refill glasses and move furniture around the room so that he could see it in all its different "lights". Finally, with half the room snoring on their couches he turned to Patroclus and waved dismissively at the door. "You can go," he said and Patroclus made to get out as fast as he could. "Wait."

Patroclus looked over his shoulder. There was a curious expression on Achilles' face and his voice sounded strange when he spoke, "Have my bath ready before dinner."

oOo

"He said _what?"_ shrieked Leptine.

"'Have my bath ready before dinner,'" repeated Patroclus, perplexed. "Why? Does he not do that a lot?"

"No, it's just…um…" Leptine bit her lip. "You're just not...trained for that…kind of thing."

Patroclus frowned in perplexity. "Well how hard can it be?" he mused. "I just have to heat some water, put it in a tub, maybe add some rose petals…or does he prefer lavender?"

Leptine shook her head pityingly. "I'm afraid it's not that simple."

Patroclus' frown deepened. "How'd you mean?"

Leptine signed and once again Patroclus felt that feeling of stepping into an imaginary world, where nothing made sense and everything meant something different. "Patroclus," she took a steadying breath. "Do you know what a bath attendant is?"

Patroclus nodded blankly. "Of course," he replied confusedly, searching Leptine's face for an explanation. "They're girls who…you know….attend the bathing. Sensually."

Leptine nodded. "Yes," she affirmed hesitantly. "But…um…not just girls."

She stepped back, waiting for his reaction. Patroclus stared idiotically as the wheels turned slowly through the mist of his mind, his eyes widening in sudden comprehension. "NO. No, no, no, no, no there's no way he can mean that."

"What else _could _he mean?" shrugged Leptine. "He hasn't asked any of the usuals. And he told you _directly…_"

"I'm not doing it," stated Patroclus, folding his arms protectively across his chest. "Just tell him I'm ill or I've run away or…or I'm dead or-"

"-You don't say no to a prince," Leptine objected. "But listen, don't worry about it. He probably just wants to make you uncomfortable, to remind you who's on top, so to speak. He'll have you pour his water…wash his hair….maybe oil his feet but that's it. It's just another way to humiliate you, that's all. To remind you of your status. You won't have to…do anything."

"Oh. Well," Patroclus rolled his eyes. "If it's only _humiliation." _

"And you should thank the Gods for it," said Leptine. "Most of us aren't so lucky. But come, if you're to be a bath attendant even only by name you've got a lot to learn….and in a very short space of time."

Leptine led Patroclus to whom she referred to as "the usuals", a handful of some of the prettiest slaves in the palace specially trained in what they called "the bathing ritual." Over the next two hours they taught him everything from how best to pour the water to the venerated oiling process, a lesson which Patroclus could be sure not to forget in a hurry. "A man's body," instructed one attendant. "Is like a harp. You need to learn to play it in a way that is best pleasing."

The attendants then showed Patroclus how to play the harp across the back and the thigh but when they came to that most sensitive of topics in between the legs they found him completely overwhelmed by a sudden violent coughing fit and could get no more out of him. Finally, when the brilliant blue of the sky had darkened to a dusty mauve they announced him ready and with Leptine's last words of "Good luck" ringing in his ears, Patroclus headed towards the baths feeling very much like a heifer, turning steadily on a spit.

The bathroom was a large chamber made mostly of marble. The ceiling was a giant dome supported by six pillars the size of tree trunks and the floor was smooth as polished granite. Right in the centre of the room was a large wooden bath and around it stood a dozen candle holders, casting foreboding shadows across the sloping walls. Patroclus lit each one and the glow of orange light bounced off the shining stone.

In an adjoining chamber a giant cauldron sat beneath a towering fireplace. Patroclus lit the fire and waited impatiently for the water to warm. When finally steam began to rise he took the cauldron off the flames and poured its contents into the bath, adding the oil, herbs and perfumes sitting in bottles on the shelves. When the bath was made, he sat himself on the edge and watched dully as steam rose from the water's surface, twisting like vapid dancers and vanishing into the warm, wet air. The scent of the herbs and oil mingled with rosewater was strong, almost stifling and he had to resist the temptation to open a window when suddenly the door opened and all other thoughts disappeared, like vapour, into the air.

Achilles' arms were crossed over his chest. He wore a loose linen robe, light and hinting at the perfect sculpt of his limbs and torso and when he saw Patroclus he smiled his curling, sneering smile. Then he closed the door.

Patroclus swallowed. Hard.

"Good evening my lord," he managed to rasp. His voice sounded hoarse and strange and he wanted to die.

"Hey," replied the prince. "I see you got my invitation."

Patroclus suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and busied himself with measuring the water's temperature. Behind him he heard the subtle _thump _of cloth hitting floor, followed by the sound of Achilles' feet pacing the chamber. Patroclus felt his pulse quicken as the rising heat of the bath crept across the back of his neck and under his chiton.

He gestured awkwardly towards the bath. "If my lord would like to step-"

"-Gods, enough with the servant formality horseshit," Achilles snapped. "You've made your thoughts about me perfectly clear. I think we've reached the level in our relationship where we can at least speak plainly, don't you?"

Taken aback by his bluntness, it was all Patroclus could do to think up a retort. "Fine," he said. "Let's speak plainly. Why am I here?"

It was Achilles' turn to be surprised. But he recovered quickly, arranging his features into a mask of mocking irony. "Why," he replied blandly. "These things are so much more fun when you have the help of a pretty girl."

Patroclus snorted derisively. "You're disgusting."

"And you're an attendant," Achilles pointed out. "So go on. Attend."

He pointed to the linen robe, lying abandoned on the floor. Patroclus strode over and folded it neatly before placing it on one of the side benches. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Achilles lowering himself into the hot water, just catching a flash of chiselled calf before it was swallowed by the surface. As Patroclus stood his eyes wondered over Achilles' magnificent form, marvelling over the perfect tautness of his upper body as he closed his eyes and let his head drop against the carved wood of the bathtub. He watched as the muscles in his shoulders contracted and relaxed, moving subtly beneath his skin like a wave under the sky.

And as he watched, as Achilles eyelashes fluttered closed and his mouth parted ever so slightly Patroclus felt a sudden, inexplicable desire to_ touch_ him.

He opened one eye and Patroclus drew breath. "What are you waiting for?"

Patroclus gave a little start and approached the bath gingerly. There was a jar of scented oil on one of the shelves and he took it, spreading it evenly over Achilles' back and shoulders. The moment his fingertips touched skin the prince issued a little sigh.

Patroclus swallowed. Harder.

"So," spoke Achilles finally. "Are we going to get through this experience in excruciating silence or make an attempt at awkward conversation?"

"It's not like we have much common ground to discuss," said Patroclus numbly, who was still trying to process the development of his _hands _on another boy's _skin._

"Oh come on," said Achilles with a yawn. "Two people with as much disdain for one another as we have must have _something_ to talk about. Where you were born, for example."

"Opus," Patroclus answered dully.

"And what was it like?"

"Warm," said Patroclus. "Dull."

"Phthia is dull," said Achilles scathingly. "A dull, flat country teeming with dull, flat people. You wake up every morning to the same simpering faces; 'yes my lord' and 'as you wish my lord'. Every one as empty as the last."

"At least your people honour you," objected Patroclus. "At least you wake up to servants and fine food and praise."

"Wealth," Achilles sneered. "Comfort. Is that what drives men?"

"Only the ones who have never known it," retorted Patroclus.

Achilles shrugged carelessly. "I have known it," he said. "And I'm _bored _of it. Do my back."

Remembering his lessons with the attendants, Patroclus slid the heels of his palms into the crevice between Achilles' shoulder blades and made small circles with the flat of his thumb. Achilles' sighed again, sending prickles up his spine. The oil made him smooth and he glistened in the flickering candlelight, giving Patroclus the distinct sensation that he was moulding pure gold.

"Why are you like the way you are?" he asked suddenly.

Achilles frowned. "Surely you've heard the stories."

"I've heard them for what they are," replied Patroclus, moving to massage just below his neck. "Stories."

"Then why don't you tell me which stories you believe to be true," said Achilles.

Patroclus thought hard, recalling snatches of gossip tossed by his peers and around the servants' quarters. "Your mother is a goddess," he stated. "As a child she held you in the Styx. They say you are immortal," he waited and when Achilles did not answer he took a steadying breath. "They say you cannot be killed."

Still Achilles said nothing. Patroclus, fearing he had said too much, lowered his hands to rub Achilles lower back. He felt a kind of fire in his fingertips, spreading from the rosy warmth of Achilles' skin to his own gut, warming his insides and sending shivers across his body all at once. Suddenly Achilles spoke, "She says I'm to be a God," he said. "But I've heard her talk about Olympus and it sounds just about as much fun as Phthia in a heat wave."

Patroclus imagined the God Achilles glowing in all his divine glory, staring from a mountain crevice with unsuppressed boredom and couldn't help but grin. "Perhaps that's because Olympus isn't so different from here after all."

"Same faces," remarked Achilles. "Different names. My hair, now."

Patroclus complied, combing his fingers through Achilles' thick blond locks with olive soap. The thought occurred to him briefly that this job as usually done by a woman but he waved it away dismissively. He would worry about that later.

"Don't you want to be a God?" he asked.

"I want to live forever," said Achilles. "But not on a cloud. And then father wants me to be a man...a great king and rule over his little world and have a hundred sons called Peleus."

"Have you spoken to them?" Patroclus frowned. "Your parents, I mean?"

Achilles thought for a moment before shaking his head. "They love me," he replied. "And I know they want the best for me. But they don't...get me. Sometimes they don't even understand what I'm saying."

Patroclus said nothing. He was thinking about his own parents; his father's perplexed disappointment, his mother's desperate searching for a reason why her son was so unlike her husband. Achilles was still speaking "You don't know how it feels," he was saying. "To live your life ungotten by anyone."

"It's like you're a ghost," said Patroclus. "And when you speak, all people hear is the wind."

"Yes," said Achilles. "That's exactly how it feels."

He looked up. Beads of moisture clung to his forehead and his hair was plastered to his face. "They all pretend to love me."

Patroclus thought of a room bursting with sycophantic laughter and wine spilling from drunken mouths. "Yes."

"But you don't."

"No."

Achilles looked satisfied. "That's why you're here."

He sank back into the tub. Patroclus looked down at the water, where Achilles' torso met his lower half, the gentle curve of his waist, the smoothness of him and he gulped, tracing a finger hesitantly down his spine. Achilles gasped at the touch and he flinched.

"You're good at this," he muttered. "Do the princes have many duties in Opus?"

Patroclus ignored the jibe, skirting the joining of Achilles' thigh with his hand as he moved steadily round the bath. Achilles' eyes widened as slowly, deliberately he began to massage him. He started outwards, working his way in with precision, and as he did so he became particularly aware of how Achilles' breaths were coming shallower and shorter, and even more so of the reaction his own body was having to the prince's laboured breaths, damp skin and ever so sweetly parted mouth.

His hands were ceaseless. Achilles' torso was arched, the whole of him almost rising out of the water to reveal the pretty pink flush spreading from his face downwards and Patroclus wondered idly if he had ever seen something so lovely. He was so close to Achilles that he feared he might fall in _But it doesn't matter, _he found himself thinking, _just as long as he does not ask me to-_

"-Stop," exclaimed the prince, eyes flashing open and Patroclus froze. "Stop…just…stop."

Patroclus jumped backwards, pulled his dripping hand out of the water and thrust it ashamedly behind his back. Achilles, red-faced and damp-skinned was blinking hard. "Enough," he said quietly, so quietly Patroclus almost didn't hear him.

Patroclus busied himself with the candles while Achilles got out of the bath. His heart was beating frantically against his chest and he felt cold all over, as if he had just walked through a ghost. Achilles towelled himself dry and pulled on the linen robe with the dependence of a soldier buckling himself into his armour.

"You may go," he said, breaking the earth-shattering silence.

Patroclus stood, routed to the spot. Achilles glanced over his shoulder and his face was like hard iron. "Did you not hear what I said?" he snapped, eyes flashing like a knife in the back. _"Go."_

And Patroclus, who knew an order when he heard it, left the room without a backwards glance. His footsteps slapped across the stone like the clatter of a hundred hooves as he marched through the halls, hardly daring to slow for breath. He felt as though the shadow of a force was stalking him, breathing across his neck in a jeering whisper of a voice; _I see you, _it said. _I see you I see you._

He did not stop when he arrived at his quarters. He did not stop to respond to Leptine's cheery greeting, nor answer her call as he drove past her. He did not stop until he reached his mattress and the cool, gloomy safety of the slaves' shared bedroom. Only then did he lie down, bury his face into his pillow and try to make sense of what had just happened.

That was the first night he dreamed of Achilles.


	7. Mynax

**Sorry it's taken me a while to update, been on holiday abroad. Bit of an interlude from the Ach/Pat relationship in this chapter (sorry) with the introduction of a new character, cue the excitement, and we get to see a bit of what Patroclus is really made of.**

**soso22 - That was my main aim with that chapter (besides an excuse for bath smut) so I'm glad that got across! Achilles is really just your standard teenage misfit, no one gets him and he's lonely. Of course that doesn't excuse his jerkishness but hopefully you can kind of see why he is like he is. Thank you and thanks so much for sticking with this!**

**Guest - Thanks I'm trying to build it up as realistically as possible but it's tricky without making it boring so it's good to know I'm doing ok! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing (and I'll let you in on a secret, so do I)**

**Elura The Strange - Haha I'm so glad! There aren't nearly enough Ach/Pat stories on the internet (I should know I've read just about all of them) so I thought I'd go ahead. Thanks for reviewing, I promise I will continue as long as I have readers!**

**sunamikei - Ok looks like I'm going to be taking up half the chapter replying to this review! :D Firstly can I just say thank you so SO much for your continued support with this fic and for taking the time to review and critique my work, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it. Just knowing that people are READING this at least makes me pathetically happy with myself. **

***Leptine is my substitute for Mount Pelion. I can't be bothered to go into the whole Chiron tutoring thing she is how I get in Patroclus' herb genius. I do find his whole ability with medicine and lore really interesting because it gives him a skill Achilles doesn't have.**

***I used the phrase invitation because he didn't ask him to be attendant directly, he had to work that out himself (with Leptine's help) but you're right, it was kind of weirdly phrased. Also yes, he did just call him a pretty girl.**

***Yeah, I kind of _wanted _it to sound like it was coming out of nowhere. Like he just got this sudden thought leaping out at him which he doesn't understand. Although I get it sounds kind of weird for a reader. As for everything afterwards, I tried to make it as sensual as possible without making it weird or too sudden. Glad you approved!**

**Ok. I'm done. You can read now. **

~seven~

_Just a dream, it means nothing. _

_But what if it doesn't?_

_A remnant of last night's weirdness. Nothing more._

_But what if it it's not?_

"Patroclus?" whipped Leptine and Patroclus started. "Are you here?"

"Yes," Patroclus answered automatically. "Yes I am here, I am here and I am listening."

"Oh really?" Leptine raised an eyebrow, her hands on her hips. "What did I just say?"

"Err…" Patroclus fumbled in his memory for a plausible answer, his eyes settling on the plants strewn across the table. "You said you had to steam the root…and….err….wear it…around your….scrotum?"

Leptine rolled her eyes. "As a _lotion," _she sighed. "You have to wear it as a _lotion."_

She dropped the vegetable on the table behind her and turned to face him, her dark eyebrows crooked with concern. "Okay," she began in a tone of voice that meant business. "What's going on with you?"

Patroclus tried to look oblivious and casual at the same time. "Nothing," he shrugged. "Nothing's wrong. I'm fine. Brilliant, in fact. I just…I love herbal roots."

"_Patroclus," _said Leptine, fixing him with her sternest stare. "If you're going to last long in this place you really need to get better at lying. You 've been distracted all morning and when you're not trying to amputate yourself," her eyes wondered over Patroclus' bandaged finger where a knife had accidentally slipped "you just sit and stare into space. Don't think I haven't noticed. I _know _it's something to do with last night."

Patroclus shuffled his feet awkwardly, dully aware that it would be easier to tickle a sleeping Cyclops than it would be to hide something from Leptine. That girl spotted _everything. _"It's nothing," he reassured her. "Just…when I was attending Achilles last night something a bit…weird…happened."

Leptine's frown deepened. "What kind of weird?"

Patroclus mumbled something inaudible. "But hey," he said loudly. "No big deal. I'm sure it happens to everyone."

Leptine looked confused but when it was clear Patroclus didn't want to go into the details she shrugged, silently resolving to find out later. Patroclus resided back into depressive silence. It had been easy to convince himself last night that what had happened in the bathroom was nothing more than natural occurrence. Yes, Achilles had appeared to respond…positively…to his touch and yes, there had been an instant when Patroclus' own response had been just as…positive. But that was natural, what with the ridiculous proximity of their bodies and the pressing, wet, almost stifling heat of the room. It was normal. It was scientific. And as Patroclus drifted into an uneasy sleep he had half-managed to doubt whether anything had really happened at all, and it had all just been a trick of the heat and the fumes.

Then came sleep. As soon as the curtains of his subconscious had fluttered closed the shadows on the world began to take peculiar shape; delicate lines of tendon strung fine as the strings of a bow, skin like polished wood, the rosy softness of thigh, the curve of a neck. Through snatches of disconnected images the looms of Patroclus' mind wove for him a tapestry of pink warmth and wet breaths, long and laboured and pressing on the walls of his skull until he woke up, cold with sweat and staring in horror at the patch of dark dampening the mattress between his legs.

He had said not a word that morning, only scraped his sheets into a hurried bundle and dropped them in a bucket of cold water before anyone had a chance to question him. Then he had done his chores and followed Leptine to the kitchens, nodding at her throughout the lesson and suggesting an "Aha" or "Mm" at frequent interjections, all the while moving on automatic and hardly hearing her words. His mind had vacated him, had made its home in dark rooms and damp mattresses and it wasn't until the knife fell that he realised he had no idea what he was doing.

"PATROCLUS!"

"I'm _sorry!"_ wailed Patroclus, wrenching himself back to reality. "I'm sorry. I'm listening now. Promise."

Leptine just sighed. "Forget it," she said. "You're obviously not with it today. Why don't we just leave it for now?"

Patroclus nodded thankfully and sank onto a bench, rubbing his temples tiredly with his fingertips. Leptine bustled about the kitchen throwing things into a steaming brew which she handed to Patroclus. He took it with a grateful smile and drank, at once feeling soothed and calm. Leptine perched next to him, sipping daintily from her own cup and for a while they sat there, neither of them saying anything, just drinking and silently understanding the other's need for thought. Patroclus pondered morosely over all that had happened, wondering if Achilles was having similar thoughts and if he'd be avoiding him from now on. For some reason Patroclus found himself hoping he wouldn't. The prince made him angry and miserable and he couldn't remember a time when he had walked away from a conversation without feeling insulted but at least he made him feel _something. _Achilles was a distraction, a break from the wearisome predictability of life and without his presence it was as though something was missing, some vital ingredient that held Patroclus from the brink of oblivion and stopped him going under when he slipped.

As he mused Patroclus found himself slipping deeper into despondency and was only saved from sheer depression by the sound of the door opening. They looked up to see Loras, a young slave who often acted as messenger, standing before them and looking purposeful.

"I have a message for you," he said, nodding at Patroclus.

Patroclus looked wary. "From who?"

"Ampelius," Loras answered and the two exchanged glances. "He says despite your new social status you are still required for drills and training instruction by the order of King Peleus. You will attend every session with the other foster sons of Phthia before returning here to resume your duties as a slave, starting immediately. He also bid me tell you that even the smallest beetle can draw blood with a bite." He shrugged apologetically. "I think he meant that as a compliment."

"Probably," sighed Patroclus, his heart sinking. "Ok. Thanks, Loras."

Loras closed the door behind him and Patroclus' head fell into his hands. Leptine put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder as he groaned in self-pity. "What have I done?" he wailed, raising his head to glare condemningly at the ceiling. "Tell me what I've done!"

"Don't worry," crooned Leptine reassuringly. "You'll be fine. Their words can't hurt you."

"No, but fists and javelins might," replied Patroclus through gritted teeth. "Suppose I'd better get ready. I'll see you later."

He hurried back to his room and dressed quickly, unwilling to keep Ampelius waiting for any longer than he had to. One of the compensating factors of slave life had been his exemption from activities with the other boys, a fact from which he had drawn some comfort. He had almost danced with glee upon hearing that he would never again have to watch as his spear fell pathetically short of his target, or endure the laughter when he misplaced his footing and had to flail to avoid landing on his sword. Now he cursed his naivety and it was with considerable reluctance that he pulled on the starched training chiton and headed down the corridor that would take him outside and onto the fields.

The group was already lined up when he arrived. Deiomachus nodded at him when he approached but the others either laughed or sneered, hammering him with names as he took his place in the line.

"Hey Menoitides, how are you liking your new room?"

"Hey Menoitides, when was the last time you took a bath?"

"Hey Menoitides, I need you to service an itch on my-"

"-Hey Menoitides," called a voice and Patroclus turned around.

A boy was walking towards him. He was big, at least a head taller than Patroclus and built like a bull, all power and muscle with a neck as wide as his torso. His shoulders were so large it seemed to take extra effort to propel his body forward and by comparison his head seemed small, although his jaw was square and blunt enough to split rock. His hair was bright red and curly, his eyes clear and blue and were it not for the cruel twist of his slack mouth and the threatening glee in his eyes he might have been handsome. Instead, he simply had the look of an oversized teenage psychopath.

He stopped short of Patroclus who felt as though a lead thing had been dropped on his gut with each step he took. "Mynax," he said and the boy grinned.

"Thrown you out, have they?" he asked.

"No," replied Patroclus, who couldn't think of anything better to say.

"They've thrown him out," Mynax announced, turning to address the group. "Prince Patroclus was thrown out by _slaves."_

"I'm still a slave," Patroclus stated dully.

It was the wrong thing to say. Mynax's eyes lit up with unsuppressed glee. "Prince Patroclus is adjusting to his new position," he exclaimed. "And why shouldn't he be? It suits him so well." And before Patroclus could retort, Mynax seized him by the back of his head and yanked it so that his neck snapped back and he cried out in shock and pain. Mynax brought his face close to Patroclus' and when he spoke he could feel flecks of spit peppering his cheek. "One might even say he was_ born _to it," he hissed. "You were _born _to suck my cock Prince Patroclus-"

"-NEKROITIDES," came Ampelius' distinctive roar. "What are you doing with that boy?"

"Nothing sir," replied Mynax, releasing Patroclus at once and blinking innocently. "Just messing."

Ampelius squinted so that his black eyes looked like tiny beetles. "Patroclus? Is that you? You look peaky. Are they letting you out enough? Get enough to eat?"

"Yes sir," mumbled Patroclus as the other boys tittered, as if Ampelius was talking to a badly-behaved pet.

"Hmm," frowned Ampelius doubtfully. "Well, summon whatever strength's left in you, lad. You'll need it today. Leonides, get the javelins. Let's see how much our cellar prince remembers."

It was a torturous session. It soon transpired that Mynax and his friends, all similarly thuggish, had apparently missed Patroclus while he was away and regarded any moment not spent abusing him as a moment wasted. Whether it was simply sticking a foot out as he passed by or sabotaging every attempt he made with a weapon they would not let up until Patroclus turned to Deiomachus for answers.

"Have I done something?" he implored furiously. "Because Mynax is making it look pretty personal."

"It's Achilles," Deiomachus explained. "Mynax knows he doesn't like you so he's trying to win his approval."

Patroclus stared in disbelief. "Why should Achilles' opinion mean so much to him? He's a prince in his own right."

Deiomachus glanced around discreetly, as if to check if anyone was listening. "I was talking to one of the serving girls," he began, with the air of someone about to divulge a great secret. "Apparently, Peleus wants Achilles to start looking for a _hetairoi."_

Hetairoi. Blood brother. Companion. Someone to fight by Achilles' side in battle and sit at his right hand during peace. Patroclus nodded in comprehension. _Of course _Achilles was looking for a hetairoi, and of course, only the best would do. A boy of noble blood and pure, unblemished history, strong enough to carry his own weapons and defend his prince's.

_That explains all the fawning, _thought Patroclus. _Anyone would kill for a place like that. _"Well he's wasting his time," he stated out loud. "Achilles hates everyone."

Deiomachus shrugged. "Apparently not everyone."

He pointed. Patroclus followed his gaze to where Achilles was sitting, having finished his own drills, and was laughing at something Mynax had just said. Patroclus stared, an acid bubble of bile rising from his stomach into his throat.

"Great," he said, more bitterly than he'd intended. "I hope they're happy together. They deserve each other, they really do."

Deiomachus looked quizzically at Patroclus. "You feeling okay?"

Patroclus blinked, suddenly aware of the inexplicable feeling of resentment in his gut. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I'm fine."

But he wasn't and as Mynax continued to flatter and fawn, once in a while sending scathing looks his way the resentment continued to bubble like boiling water until finally, when Achilles had returned to his training, Patroclus was feeling decidedly un-fine enough as to challenge Mynax.

He strode up to him boldly, aware of every set of eyes following him and his own sweating palms. Mynax had his back to him and he was surrounded by friends, each one a towering fortress when compared to Patroclus' pitiable averageness. He took a steadying breath, forcing himself not to look at Mynax's rock-like fists and scratched knuckles.

"Hey," he said and when he didn't turn around he said "Hey" again, louder.

The chatter stopped. Mynax turned slowly, like an owl at night. His eyes settled on Patroclus and he grinned, his lips twisting unpleasantly as if it caused him pain. Patroclus straightened his spine and tried to look threatening. "Did you put the cows in the hall?"

Mynax laughed. "What?"

"Did you put the cows in the hall?" Patroclus repeated. "And tell Phoenix it was me?"

Mynax's grin became a grimace. "And if I did?"

Patroclus squared his shoulders. "If you did," he said. "And you are a man, you will say you did."

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a few people nod appreciatively. Mynax pulled back his upper lip, revealing pointed canines. Like a dog's. "If I did," he said slowly. "I see the point was not taken to heart."

Patroclus frowned. "And what point was that?"

"That some people are born to serve others," said Mynax. "Some people are born to be slaves."

The boys behind him sniggered. Patroclus felt the heat creep into his cheeks but he held his gaze as Mynax began to walk slow, deliberate circles around him, poking viciously at any bare patch of flesh he could reach. "Thin arms," he taunted. "Weak knees. Little back. And the face," here he paused, just centimetres away. Patroclus could feel his breath on his skin and prepared himself for the insult. But it never came. Instead, Mynax pulled back his hand brought it sharply across his cheek.

Patroclus staggered backwards. He could feel the mark burning scarlet, heard the sharp intakes of breath from left and right. Through watery eyes he saw Mynax looking triumphant, his features wrought in perverse pleasure as his friends whistled and clapped, bursting with barely contained anticipation. "By the way," he was saying. "I also drew a dick on your tunic."

His skin stung. His eyes sprang salt and he blinked hard, his head swimming as the world spun before him. This was it. No man could sit idle and take such humiliation. Patroclus had to act and fast. He had no other option.

He stepped forward and hit him.

As his knuckles met the side of Mynax's face he became aware that this probably wouldn't hurt him as much as he'd meant it to. He had meant to get him in the nose but he'd turned his head at precisely the wrong moment and the punch was disappointingly softened by the flesh of his cheek. Still Mynax stumbled and when he stepped back Patroclus was pleased to see a matching bruise already beginning to blossom.

"You little bitch," he spat, his eyes burning yellow-white with fury. "You fucking little cunt."

He launched at him with his whole body, fourteen stones of iron-hard muscle and Patroclus, who could barely process what was happening, had no time to sidestep and caught the whole of it, like a torpedo, in his gut. His head slammed against the ground and tiny silver spots popped up with the impact, he blinked and the next thing he knew Mynax was on him, pinning his wrists down with the strength of ten giants, his knees clamped atop his chest.

"Get off," Patroclus hissed. "You fat fuck, get off."

Instead Mynax tightened his hold, laughing manically so that flecks of saliva flew into his face and Patroclus screamed with the pure injustice of it all.

Then, suddenly, Mynax's face began to change. His jaw thinned, his cheekbones slackened until Patroclus was no longer looking into his face but into that of Clysonymus', his eyes bloodless and unseeing, his chiton torn and running crimson. And Patroclus screamed again, wrenching his wrists from the dead boy's clammy grasp and twisting until he had him by the shoulders.

With tremendous effort he seized the boy's sides as if they were handles and pushed him down. His hands flew out, grabbing Patroclus by the ankles and he floundered, losing balance but instead of hitting the floor he shifted his weight, collapsing into his assailant's torso. As he thrashed, kicked, punched and wrestled he realised suddenly that this was all too familiar, that his hands would become sticky with blood and the solid body beneath him would turn limp with a snap, like the break of a twig.

Then the face changed again and Mynax was staring up at him, eyes wide with astonishment as Patroclus threw him down, twisting his legs behind him so that he could not get up. Around them a crowd had gathered and voices were shouting encouragement, shrill and barbarous like chattering monkeys as the two boys wrestled in the circle. And when Mynax finally gasped "Stop" and Patroclus stood up the cheer was so loud birds took flight into the summer air, anxious to escape the shrieks of wild animals.

And now someone was patting him on the back, another on his shoulder and Deiomachus was yelling "I _told _you he could do some things!" but it was one face he looked for, a silver that stood out from between the trees.

Achilles was watching, his head tilted to the side as if trying hard to work something out. Then Ampelius called "PATROCLUS" and he was gone and Mynax was telling him he would kill him, you ugly piece of shit, if it was the last thing he'd ever do.


	8. Doulos

~eight~

"Wait, wait. Tell me again."

Patroclus groaned, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. "I _told _you," he said. "I won a fight against Mynax, Ampelius pitted me against Leonides, Iasonides and Deiomachus, I won the fights, Ampelius wet himself."

"Then what?"

"Ampelius made me fight the whole group. Like, one by one."

"And you won _all of them?!"_

"No," he shook his head. "But I didn't lose all of them either!"

"Oh my _Gods!"_ Leptine squealed, throwing her arms around his neck. "This is it! Didn't I tell you there was something you'd be good at it? Something that would make you famous? You're a _fighter, _Patroclus! You can fight!"

"Steady on," Patroclus hugged her, laughing. "I still lost a fair few. And my technique's _terrible, _Ampelius likened it to the style of a drunken bar brawl. And it's only wrestling, it's not like I can do anything else. But I don't know, when I fight something in me just…_comes out, _I guess. Like…I don't know…I just really, _really _want to win."

"It's heart," Leptine beamed. "Pure heart. You're winning on your bravery and courage. Your desire to come out on top."

Patroclus shook his head modestly. "I think it's just the sheer desperation of not wanting to lose, to be honest."

Leptine smacked him reprovingly on the arm and, as she had a hundred times before, scolded him on his total inability to accept praise. Patroclus humoured her but inside his mind was still reeling with the adrenalin of the morning. Blood was on his tongue and sweat in the crevices of his hands and elbows and his ears echoed with blasphemies and wretched gasps of _"Stop". _His palms itched, the tips of his fingers tingled with physical excitement and everything was flashing muscle and groans of surrender. Everything, suddenly, was bronze.

It would be an understatement to say that Ampelius had been impressed. One look at Mynax's chastened scowl and Patroclus, bleeding but triumphant had him roaring with delight, almost breaking Patroclus' spine as he clapped him on the back. He had then, as if to confirm what he had just seen, declared a spontaneous wrestling match between Patroclus and everyone, forcing him to his feet even when his knees buckled beneath him and his body grew slick with blood.

"I KNEW IT!" the drills master had declared as Leonides collapsed, wheezing, against a tree. "THERE'S FIGHT IN YOU BOY, IN YOUR FISTS AND YOUR NAILS AND YOUR TEETH! THAT'S BLOOD IN YOUR VEINS, A SURVIVOR'S BLOOD! WE'LL MAKE A SOLDIER OUT OF YOU YET!"

But at that moment, with a beaten rival shaking his hand with respect in his eyes Patroclus was not thinking about survival.

"Promise me," Leptine was saying. "Promise me you'll think better of yourself now."

Patroclus smiled. "Why should I need to," he said. "When I have you to think so well of me?"

"I may not always be around," she replied solemnly.

Patroclus scrutinised her frowningly, his dark eyebrows knitting a cloud of reproach across his forehead. "What do you mean?" he said. "Why shouldn't you be? Your place is here, you're staying here…right?"

"Well of course I hope so," she replied, fixing him with one of her sad, a little pitying looks. "But you know, people never have much choice in these matters."

It was the way she looked, rather than what she said that revealed that by "people" she really meant _"people like me." _The thought filled Patroclus with a sudden dread, passing over him like a chill as he thought about life without her melancholy, dark eyes, her thoughtful smiles and hesitant laughter. And for the first time since he had known her he feared he would lose her.

The realisation was enough to scare him into flinging his arms possessively around her waist, knocking her backwards into the silver they were polishing. "Patroclus!" she exclaimed in surprise. "What are you doing?"

"Don't leave meee," he moaned sorrowfully.

"I'm not planning on it anytime soon!" she laughed. "Let go, you idiot."

"No," he clung childishly. "Not until you promise to stay here _forever."_

Leptine giggled with a half-hearted attempt to push him away but Patroclus held tight, and was still holding her when the doors opened with an obtrusive slam and the prince walked into the room.

Achilles took one look at them, Patroclus' arms wrapped jealously around Leptine's hips, the echo of laughter frozen on her face and his eyes widened, then narrowed. "Am I interrupting something?"

They jumped apart, excuses and explanations spilling from their mouths as they gestured and justified, their embarrassment manifesting itself in frantic movements and pink cheeks. Achilles watched the tragic show unfold, looking stony.

"Enough," he snapped, his face flushing scarlet. "Whatever pursuit you enjoy in your own time is no business of mine. But clearly you cannot behave as befits workers of my father's house. You will be punished."

Leptine murmured compliance and looked down at her feet. Patroclus, however, looked indignant. "My lord, that's not fair," he protested. "I was just messing around, Leptine didn't do anything-"

"-How noble of you to say so," Achilles cut jeeringly. "But it is obvious you are no good influence on each other. You're both on privy duty. Separately."

Patroclus opened his mouth to argue but a sidelong glance from Leptine stopped him. Instead he contented himself with a particularly malice-filled glare, mirrored by Achilles' returning scowl. "Hurry up with that silver," he barked. "My laundry's been fermenting for days and I need a chiton for the afternoon. Idiocy is no excuse for laziness."

And with that he turned on his heel and marched from the room, slamming the door behind him. As soon as he was gone and out of earshot Patroclus punched a pillar.

"Fuck," he hissed, massaging his knuckles. "That _bastard! _That stupid, milksop, chauvinist _prick."_

"Chauvinist might be a bit strong," said Leptine.

"No word is too strong," replied Patroclus through gritted teeth. "I swear, I've had enough. If he wants to take out his deep rooted personal issues on me…been like this for too long, ever since-"

He stopped himself just in time at Leptine's questioning look, aware that he had been about to divulge the details of his night in attendance. Achilles' way of dealing with the incident had been to pretend it never happened and instead focused all his energies on making Patroclus' life a living hell. A step up from his usual snide remarks, his every action was hateful and calculated and there was unsuppressed anger in every humiliating ordeal he could think to put him through until, by the end of the day, Patroclus was no longer sure who Achilles was punishing.

This time, however, he had gone too far. And apparently, Leptine thought so too.

"I know that look," he said as she chewed her lip thoughtfully. "What're you thinking?"

"Just that," she answered slowly. "It's a little too late in the game to be playing with words."

oOo

Achilles had not been lying about the laundry. Upon entering they were greeted by a monument of white, where tunic upon tunic had been thrown haphazardly into a corner until a linen tower had risen, twisted and intimidating and bright with crimson sleeves and embroidered collars. Patroclus and Leptine crept stealthily around the mount with all the wide-eyed innocence of a convicted felon.

"This is a bad idea," Patroclus muttered. "This is a very, very bad idea."

"So why are you still here then?" Leptine retorted. "Nobody's forcing you."

"I don't know," he confessed. "I honestly don't. This is stupid. This is suicide."

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic." She crossed over to his bed where a fresh chiton had been laid out neatly, sky blue with a border worked in gold and studded with lapis lazuli. It was the kind of garment only princes could afford to wear, and would only be expected to on the most important of occasions.

Leptine lifted the lovely piece and stuffed it unceremoniously into the leather bag she was wearing over her shoulder. "Ok," she said. "Pass me the deerskin."

Patroclus handed her the heavy, brown tunic. "Remind me. What's the point of all of this?"

"The king is having some very important visitors this evening," Leptine explained, spreading the deerskin where the blue tunic had lain. "Tribesmen from the northern regions. He needs their armies to help deal with attacks from Thessaly. But they're forest dwellers and animals are sacred to them, especially the deer. So, we are to see that Achilles dresses for the occasion."

She gestured to the ugly brown tunic, crumpled and misshapen against the sheets. Patroclus frowned. "Achilles would never wear something like that," he said dubiously. "He's too vain."

"He would if he thought it was expected," Leptine replied wickedly. "He's been brought up to dress appropriately before his company. If he thinks his father means for him to wear it, he'll wear it."

Patroclus looked at the tunic, at the blue chiton, at Leptine's confident, self-assured grin. He shook his head. "This is stupid," he repeated. "This is a bad, bad, bad idea. What if they find out it was us?"

"They won't," Leptine assured him. "Even if Achilles _does _suspect something he won't be able to prove it. Besides, his record holds against him. He's been chided for insulting his father's visitors more times than I can count. He thinks it's funny or something."

"Some sense of humour," Patroclus remarked dully. "I wonder he'll juggle at our executions."

"Look, do you want your revenge or not? Because honestly, privy duty is starting to look a lot more appealing."

"No, I do, I do, it's just-"

"-Then enough with the negativity and help me straighten out some of these creases."

oOo

It did not take long for the story of the prince's disgrace to reach the servants' quarters. Loras' epic recount to anyone who would listen told of how the chieftain and ambassador of the northern tribes had taken one look at Achilles' hairy, shapeless, doe-pelt smock and splattered the walls of the Great Hall with Peleus' famed hospitality with one massive heaving of their stomachs. Needless to say blasphemies were uttered, foul oaths were sworn and the evening was ended in much bloodshed and many a bruised feeling. It was, Loras assured them gleefully, a failure of cataclysmic proportions with Achilles being named the venture's sole cause and utter ruin.

That night, Leptine and Patroclus fell asleep giggling.

oOo

"Do you think it was too mean?" Leptine asked anxiously on their morning rounds the next day.

"Nah," Patroclus shook his head ardently. "He needs to learn. Think about everything he's put usthrough. If anything, this whole experience is good for him. Maybe he'll come out of it with a new-found desire to do good and treat people with respect and gentility."

Leptine sniggered. "Maybe Zeus will shower roses instead of thunderbolts and Hades will wear a pantyhose."

Patroclus laughed. "Hey, you don't know," he smirked. "The appearance of self-love could just be a desperate attempt to hide the sweet, sensitive soul inside-"

"_-Doulos!" _a loud, commanding voice cut across him. "Over here!"

Patroclus and Leptine looked up to see a huddle of boys at the far end of the corridor grouped around a broom cupboard. They approached warily and as they did so Patroclus' heart dropped into his stomach. Standing at their forefront was Mynax.

Catching sight of Patroclus' wary guardedness his face twisted into a broken-toothed grin. "Do not look so scared, _doulos,"_ he said scornfully. "My friends and I only require your assistance."

"What do you want?" asked Patroclus.

Mynax gestured towards the broom cupboard. His huge hands seemed to fan the air. "Phineas' dog is trapped," he explained. "We tried calling him but he can't get out. And it's below us to lower ourselves to searching through broom cupboards. You however…"

"Right," Patroclus rolled his eyes as Phineas grinned stupidly. "Fine. If we get your dog will you leave us alone?"

Mynax nodded solemnly and made the sign of an oath before Zeus. Reassured, but not altogether happy, Patroclus and Leptine opened the broom cupboard and stepped inside. It was pitch black but for a tiny slither of light from a crack in the wall, showing shelves stacked neatly with soaps, buckets and rags. Brooms and brushes littered the space in clusters. There was no evidence, however, of any such dog.

Patroclus was just about to say so when the door slammed behind them and with the follow of a _click _he knew, with dread, that it was locked. On the other side he could hear Mynax and his friends splitting with laughter, deep and rolling like barrels smashing against a wall.

"The prince sends his compliments!" Mynax yelled triumphantly through the keyhole.

"He put you up to this?" cried Patroclus in outrage.

"Consider it justice," replied Mynax. "And now, as my oath state, we shall leave you alone!"

He heard their laughter ringing down the hall, growing fainter and fainter as their footsteps died out. Patroclus and Leptine hammered at the door, screaming with all the air in them in the hope that someone would pass by. But when the minutes stretched into hours and still no one came their shouts became quieter and less frequent until all they had strength to do was sit in the dark and stare morbidly at their hands, taking shifts to call out.

They were found finally by another slave who had taken their wailings for the moans of trapped spirits but had gone back just to check. But by that time it was late afternoon and they had missed all the day's chores. With most of the slaves too tired and resentful to believe their protests they were taken before Amyntor and disciplined for shirking. Patroclus, being a prince and foster son of Peleus got of lightly with only a few blotches of red and a wince when he moved.

Leptine was beaten until her back was bloody.

oOo

That evening, his body aching and the sound of Leptine's whimpers searing in his ears, Patroclus sought Achilles out.

He found him on the beach, throwing things into the waves and grinning when they swallowed them up. The wind caught at his yellow hair, the only thing that stood out against the dark and pulled it across his cheeks and lips. Standing barefoot on the rock, his body tipped towards the sea he looked for a moment like one of the naiads of the crystal caves, or a mermaid or a girl.

Patroclus stormed up to him with all the hell-bent fire of a Fury and the naiad gave a very human startle of surprise. "Hey," Patroclus yelled over the crash of the waves. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Achilles straightened up and set his face as hard as the rock beneath him. Patroclus stopped a few feet from him, his hands curled into fists and his arms shaking with rage. "Leptine was beaten," he said.

Achilles shrugged uncaringly but the effect was ruined by the uneasy look in his eyes. "You asked for it."

The roar of the ocean was deafened by the pounding of blood in his ears and for a moment, Patroclus was scared he would murder him. "Do what you want to me," he shouted. "Hurt me. Kill me, if you like. But I swear, if anything happens to her again because of you I will rip the God right out of you."

"She got me in trouble!" Achilles screamed, raising his fists like a child throwing a tantrum. "She dishonoured my name! She brought shame to my father and he won't even look at me and-"

"-That thing you're dealing with," said Patroclus. "All that pain and injustice you're feeling, that's called _life, _Achilles and you'd better get fucking used to it. Why do bad things happen to good people? Why is the one thing you never asked for always the one thing you get? You'd think I'd know, I've only been getting it my whole fucking life. And you, you live in this beautiful world and everybody loves you and everything is Achilles and Achilles and Achilles and when _one _thing goes wrong, _one thing, _you act as if the whole world is conspiring against you-"

"-IT IS!" shrieked Achilles, sea salt streaking his cheeks. "IT IS IT IS YOU DON'T KNOW YOU DON'T. YOU THINK YOU DO BUT YOU _DON'T_-"

"-I DON'T WANT TO," Patroclus shouted. "WALTZING THROUGH LIFE BECAUSE YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE WHO MATTERS. MAKING HELL FOR ANYONE WHO GETS IN YOUR WAY. YOU'RE DISGUSTING, YOU MAKE ME _SICK. _I HOPE I NEVER UNDERSTAND. I HOPE NO ONE EVER DOES. I'D RATHER BE A SLAVE FOREVER THAN THINK LIKE YOU DO."

"GO THEN," said Achilles and the sea crashed around his words. "IF I'M DISGUSTING, IF I MAKE YOU SICK, HOW CAN YOU BARE TO LOOK AT ME? HOW CAN YOU BARE IT? GO BACK TO YOUR WHORE, GO _FUCK_ HERSOME COMFORT, GODS KNOW SHE MEANS SO MUCH TO YOU."

Patroclus stared. Achilles' eyes were huge and wild and green as a monster, his skin stretched skull-white across his bones with his hair whipped about his face he looked for a moment quite insane. Patroclus searched him, the furious defiance in his eyes and his mouth, the anger and pain in the straining muscles of his arms and shoulders. He searched him and his voice was heavy with confusion when he spoke. "What is this about?"

Achilles blinked. His lip trembled. "I don't know," he said.

They looked at each other. The waves splintered huge crags of rock from the black cliffs in the distance. The purple clouds burst with a shower of arrows, the wind pulled Achilles' hair across his face. And Patroclus, who had heard enough, turned and walked away without looking back.


End file.
